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Title: Pride and Prejudice

Author: Jane Austen

Release date: June 1, 1998 [eBook #1342]
Most recently updated: February 10, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1342

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
***

PREFACE.
List of Illustrations.
Chapter: I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII., VIII., IX., X.,
XI., XII., XIII., XIV., XV., XVI., XVII., XVIII.,
XIX., XX., XXI., XXII., XXIII., XXIV., XXV.,
XXVI., XXVII., XXVIII., XXIX., XXX., XXXI.,
XXXII., XXXIII., XXXIV., XXXV., XXXVI.,
XXXVII., XXXVIII., XXXIX., XL., XLI., XLII.,
XLIII., XLIV., XLV., XLVI., XLVII., XLVIII.,
XLIX., L., LI., LII., LIII., LIV., LV., LVI., LVII.,
LVIII., LIX., LX., LXI.

PRIDE.
and
PREJUDICE
by
Jane Austen,

with a Preface by
George Saintsbury
and
Illustrations by
Hugh Thomson

Ruskin 156. Charing
House. Cross Road.

London
George Allen.

CHISWICK PRESS:—CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

Walt Whitman has somewhere a fine and just distinction between “loving by
allowance” and “loving with personal love.” This distinction applies to books as well as
to men and women; and in the case of the not very numerous authors who are the
objects of the personal affection, it brings a curious consequence with it. There is much
more difference as to their best work than in the case of those others who are loved “by
allowance” by convention, and because it is felt to be the right and proper thing to love
them. And in the sect—fairly large and yet unusually choice—of Austenians or Janites,
there would probably be found partisans of the claim to primacy of almost every one of
the novels. To some the delightful freshness and humour of Northanger Abbey, its
completeness, finish, and entrain, obscure the undoubted critical facts that its scale is
small, and its scheme, after all, that of burlesque or parody, a kind in which the first
rank is reached with difficulty. Persuasion, relatively faint in tone, and not enthralling in
interest, has devotees who exalt above all the others its exquisite delicacy and keeping.
The catastrophe of Mansfield Park is admittedly theatrical, the hero and heroine are
insipid, and the author has almost wickedly destroyed all romantic interest by expressly
admitting that Edmund only took Fanny because Mary shocked him, and that Fanny
might very likely have taken Crawford if he had been a little more assiduous; yet the
matchless rehearsal-scenes and the characters of Mrs. Norris and others have secured, I
believe, a considerable party for it. Sense and Sensibility has perhaps the fewest out-
and-out admirers; but it does not want them.
I suppose, however, that the majority of at least competent votes would, all things
considered, be divided between Emma and the present book; and perhaps the vulgar
verdict (if indeed a fondness for Miss Austen be not of itself a patent of exemption from
any possible charge of vulgarity) would go for Emma. It is the larger, the more varied,

the more popular; the author had by the time of its composition seen rather more of the
world, and had improved her general, though not her most peculiar and characteristic
dialogue; such figures as Miss Bates, as the Eltons, cannot but unite the suffrages of
everybody. On the other hand, I, for my part, declare for Pride and Prejudice
unhesitatingly. It seems to me the most perfect, the most characteristic, the most
eminently quintessential of its author’s works; and for this contention in such narrow
space as is permitted to me, I propose here to show cause.
In the first place, the book (it may be barely necessary to remind the reader) was in
its first shape written very early, somewhere about 1796, when Miss Austen was barely
twenty-one; though it was revised and finished at Chawton some fifteen years later, and
was not published till 1813, only four years before her death. I do not know whether, in
this combination of the fresh and vigorous projection of youth, and the critical revision
of middle life, there may be traced the distinct superiority in point of construction,
which, as it seems to me, it possesses over all the others. The plot, though not elaborate,
is almost regular enough for Fielding; hardly a character, hardly an incident could be
retrenched without loss to the story. The elopement of Lydia and Wickham is not, like
that of Crawford and Mrs. Rushworth, a coup de théâtre; it connects itself in the strictest
way with the course of the story earlier, and brings about the denouement with complete
propriety. All the minor passages—the loves of Jane and Bingley, the advent of Mr.
Collins, the visit to Hunsford, the Derbyshire tour—fit in after the same unostentatious,
but masterly fashion. There is no attempt at the hide-and-seek, in-and-out business,
which in the transactions between Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax contributes no
doubt a good deal to the intrigue of Emma, but contributes it in a fashion which I do not
think the best feature of that otherwise admirable book. Although Miss Austen always
liked something of the misunderstanding kind, which afforded her opportunities for the
display of the peculiar and incomparable talent to be noticed presently, she has been
satisfied here with the perfectly natural occasions provided by the false account of
Darcy’s conduct given by Wickham, and by the awkwardness (arising with equal
naturalness) from the gradual transformation of Elizabeth’s own feelings from positive
aversion to actual love. I do not know whether the all-grasping hand of the playwright
has ever been laid upon Pride and Prejudice; and I dare say that, if it were, the situations
would prove not startling or garish enough for the footlights, the character-scheme too
subtle and delicate for pit and gallery. But if the attempt were made, it would certainly
not be hampered by any of those loosenesses of construction, which, sometimes
disguised by the conveniences of which the novelist can avail himself, appear at once on
the stage.
I think, however, though the thought will doubtless seem heretical to more than one
school of critics, that construction is not the highest merit, the choicest gift, of the
novelist. It sets off his other gifts and graces most advantageously to the critical eye;
and the want of it will sometimes mar those graces—appreciably, though not quite
consciously—to eyes by no means ultra-critical. But a very badly-built novel which
excelled in pathetic or humorous character, or which displayed consummate command
of dialogue—perhaps the rarest of all faculties—would be an infinitely better thing than

a faultless plot acted and told by puppets with pebbles in their mouths. And despite the
ability which Miss Austen has shown in working out the story, I for one should put Pride
and Prejudice far lower if it did not contain what seem to me the very masterpieces of
Miss Austen’s humour and of her faculty of character-creation—masterpieces who may
indeed admit John Thorpe, the Eltons, Mrs. Norris, and one or two others to their
company, but who, in one instance certainly, and perhaps in others, are still superior to
them.
The characteristics of Miss Austen’s humour are so subtle and delicate that they are,
perhaps, at all times easier to apprehend than to express, and at any particular time
likely to be differently apprehended by different persons. To me this humour seems to
possess a greater affinity, on the whole, to that of Addison than to any other of the
numerous species of this great British genus. The differences of scheme, of time, of
subject, of literary convention, are, of course, obvious enough; the difference of sex does
not, perhaps, count for much, for there was a distinctly feminine element in “Mr.
Spectator,” and in Jane Austen’s genius there was, though nothing mannish, much that
was masculine. But the likeness of quality consists in a great number of common
subdivisions of quality—demureness, extreme minuteness of touch, avoidance of loud
tones and glaring effects. Also there is in both a certain not inhuman or unamiable
cruelty. It is the custom with those who judge grossly to contrast the good nature of
Addison with the savagery of Swift, the mildness of Miss Austen with the boisterousness
of Fielding and Smollett, even with the ferocious practical jokes that her immediate
predecessor, Miss Burney, allowed without very much protest. Yet, both in Mr. Addison
and in Miss Austen there is, though a restrained and well-mannered, an insatiable and
ruthless delight in roasting and cutting up a fool. A man in the early eighteenth century,
of course, could push this taste further than a lady in the early nineteenth; and no doubt
Miss Austen’s principles, as well as her heart, would have shrunk from such things as
the letter from the unfortunate husband in the Spectator, who describes, with all the
gusto and all the innocence in the world, how his wife and his friend induce him to play
at blind-man’s-buff. But another Spectator letter—that of the damsel of fourteen who
wishes to marry Mr. Shapely, and assures her selected Mentor that “he admires your
Spectators mightily”—might have been written by a rather more ladylike and intelligent
Lydia Bennet in the days of Lydia’s great-grandmother; while, on the other hand, some
(I think unreasonably) have found “cynicism” in touches of Miss Austen’s own, such as
her satire of Mrs. Musgrove’s self-deceiving regrets over her son. But this word
“cynical” is one of the most misused in the English language, especially when, by a
glaring and gratuitous falsification of its original sense, it is applied, not to rough and
snarling invective, but to gentle and oblique satire. If cynicism means the perception of
“the other side,” the sense of “the accepted hells beneath,” the consciousness that
motives are nearly always mixed, and that to seem is not identical with to be—if this be
cynicism, then every man and woman who is not a fool, who does not care to live in a
fool’s paradise, who has knowledge of nature and the world and life, is a cynic. And in
that sense Miss Austen certainly was one. She may even have been one in the further
sense that, like her own Mr. Bennet, she took an epicurean delight in dissecting, in

displaying, in setting at work her fools and her mean persons. I think she did take this
delight, and I do not think at all the worse of her for it as a woman, while she was
immensely the better for it as an artist.
In respect of her art generally, Mr. Goldwin Smith has truly observed that “metaphor
has been exhausted in depicting the perfection of it, combined with the narrowness of
her field;” and he has justly added that we need not go beyond her own comparison to
the art of a miniature painter. To make this latter observation quite exact we must not
use the term miniature in its restricted sense, and must think rather of Memling at one
end of the history of painting and Meissonier at the other, than of Cosway or any of his
kind. And I am not so certain that I should myself use the word “narrow” in connection
with her. If her world is a microcosm, the cosmic quality of it is at least as eminent as
the littleness. She does not touch what she did not feel herself called to paint; I am not
so sure that she could not have painted what she did not feel herself called to touch. It is
at least remarkable that in two very short periods of writing—one of about three years,
and another of not much more than five—she executed six capital works, and has not left
a single failure. It is possible that the romantic paste in her composition was defective:
we must always remember that hardly anybody born in her decade—that of the
eighteenth-century seventies—independently exhibited the full romantic quality. Even
Scott required hill and mountain and ballad, even Coleridge metaphysics and German to
enable them to chip the classical shell. Miss Austen was an English girl, brought up in a
country retirement, at the time when ladies went back into the house if there was a white
frost which might pierce their kid shoes, when a sudden cold was the subject of the
gravest fears, when their studies, their ways, their conduct were subject to all those
fantastic limits and restrictions against which Mary Wollstonecraft protested with better
general sense than particular taste or judgment. Miss Austen, too, drew back when the
white frost touched her shoes; but I think she would have made a pretty good journey
even in a black one.
For if her knowledge was not very extended, she knew two things which only genius
knows. The one was humanity, and the other was art. On the first head she could not
make a mistake; her men, though limited, are true, and her women are, in the old sense,
“absolute.” As to art, if she has never tried idealism, her realism is real to a degree
which makes the false realism of our own day look merely dead-alive. Take almost any
Frenchman, except the late M. de Maupassant, and watch him laboriously piling up
strokes in the hope of giving a complete impression. You get none; you are lucky if,
discarding two-thirds of what he gives, you can shape a real impression out of the rest.
But with Miss Austen the myriad, trivial, unforced strokes build up the picture like
magic. Nothing is false; nothing is superfluous. When (to take the present book only) Mr.
Collins changed his mind from Jane to Elizabeth “while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the
fire” (and we know how Mrs. Bennet would have stirred the fire), when Mr. Darcy
“brought his coffee-cup back himself,” the touch in each case is like that of Swift
—“taller by the breadth of my nail”—which impressed the half-reluctant Thackeray with
just and outspoken admiration. Indeed, fantastic as it may seem, I should put Miss
Austen as near to Swift in some ways, as I have put her to Addison in others.

This Swiftian quality appears in the present novel as it appears nowhere else in the
character of the immortal, the ineffable Mr. Collins. Mr. Collins is really great; far
greater than anything Addison ever did, almost great enough for Fielding or for Swift
himself. It has been said that no one ever was like him. But in the first place, he was like
him; he is there—alive, imperishable, more real than hundreds of prime ministers and
archbishops, of “metals, semi-metals, and distinguished philosophers.” In the second
place, it is rash, I think, to conclude that an actual Mr. Collins was impossible or non-
existent at the end of the eighteenth century. It is very interesting that we possess, in this
same gallery, what may be called a spoiled first draught, or an unsuccessful study of
him, in John Dashwood. The formality, the under-breeding, the meanness, are there; but
the portrait is only half alive, and is felt to be even a little unnatural. Mr. Collins is
perfectly natural, and perfectly alive. In fact, for all the “miniature,” there is something
gigantic in the way in which a certain side, and more than one, of humanity, and
especially eighteenth-century humanity, its Philistinism, its well-meaning but hide-
bound morality, its formal pettiness, its grovelling respect for rank, its materialism, its
selfishness, receives exhibition. I will not admit that one speech or one action of this
inestimable man is incapable of being reconciled with reality, and I should not wonder if
many of these words and actions are historically true.
But the greatness of Mr. Collins could not have been so satisfactorily exhibited if his
creatress had not adjusted so artfully to him the figures of Mr. Bennet and of Lady
Catherine de Bourgh. The latter, like Mr. Collins himself, has been charged with
exaggeration. There is, perhaps, a very faint shade of colour for the charge; but it seems
to me very faint indeed. Even now I do not think that it would be impossible to find
persons, especially female persons, not necessarily of noble birth, as overbearing, as
self-centred, as neglectful of good manners, as Lady Catherine. A hundred years ago, an
earl’s daughter, the Lady Powerful (if not exactly Bountiful) of an out-of-the-way
country parish, rich, long out of marital authority, and so forth, had opportunities of
developing these agreeable characteristics which seldom present themselves now. As for
Mr. Bennet, Miss Austen, and Mr. Darcy, and even Miss Elizabeth herself, were, I am
inclined to think, rather hard on him for the “impropriety” of his conduct. His wife was
evidently, and must always have been, a quite irreclaimable fool; and unless he had shot
her or himself there was no way out of it for a man of sense and spirit but the ironic.
From no other point of view is he open to any reproach, except for an excusable and not
unnatural helplessness at the crisis of the elopement, and his utterances are the most
acutely delightful in the consciously humorous kind—in the kind that we laugh with, not
at—that even Miss Austen has put into the mouth of any of her characters. It is difficult
to know whether he is most agreeable when talking to his wife, or when putting Mr.
Collins through his paces; but the general sense of the world has probably been right in
preferring to the first rank his consolation to the former when she maunders over the
entail, “My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things.
Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor;” and his inquiry to his colossal
cousin as to the compliments which Mr. Collins has just related as made by himself to
Lady Catherine, “May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse

of the moment, or are the result of previous study?” These are the things which give
Miss Austen’s readers the pleasant shocks, the delightful thrills, which are felt by the
readers of Swift, of Fielding, and we may here add, of Thackeray, as they are felt by the
readers of no other English author of fiction outside of these four.
The goodness of the minor characters in Pride and Prejudice has been already
alluded to, and it makes a detailed dwelling on their beauties difficult in any space, and
impossible in this. Mrs. Bennet we have glanced at, and it is not easy to say whether she
is more exquisitely amusing or more horribly true. Much the same may be said of Kitty
and Lydia; but it is not every author, even of genius, who would have differentiated with
such unerring skill the effects of folly and vulgarity of intellect and disposition working
upon the common weaknesses of woman at such different ages. With Mary, Miss Austen
has taken rather less pains, though she has been even more unkind to her; not merely in
the text, but, as we learn from those interesting traditional appendices which Mr. Austen
Leigh has given us, in dooming her privately to marry “one of Mr. Philips’s clerks.” The
habits of first copying and then retailing moral sentiments, of playing and singing too
long in public, are, no doubt, grievous and criminal; but perhaps poor Mary was rather
the scapegoat of the sins of blue stockings in that Fordyce-belectured generation. It is at
any rate difficult not to extend to her a share of the respect and affection (affection and
respect of a peculiar kind; doubtless), with which one regards Mr. Collins, when she
draws the moral of Lydia’s fall. I sometimes wish that the exigencies of the story had
permitted Miss Austen to unite these personages, and thus at once achieve a notable
mating and soothe poor Mrs. Bennet’s anguish over the entail.
The Bingleys and the Gardiners and the Lucases, Miss Darcy and Miss de Bourgh,
Jane, Wickham, and the rest, must pass without special comment, further than the
remark that Charlotte Lucas (her egregious papa, though delightful, is just a little on the
thither side of the line between comedy and farce) is a wonderfully clever study in drab
of one kind, and that Wickham (though something of Miss Austen’s hesitation of touch in
dealing with young men appears) is a not much less notable sketch in drab of another.
Only genius could have made Charlotte what she is, yet not disagreeable; Wickham
what he is, without investing him either with a cheap Don Juanish attractiveness or a
disgusting rascality. But the hero and the heroine are not tints to be dismissed.
Darcy has always seemed to me by far the best and most interesting of Miss Austen’s
heroes; the only possible competitor being Henry Tilney, whose part is so slight and
simple that it hardly enters into comparison. It has sometimes, I believe, been urged that
his pride is unnatural at first in its expression and later in its yielding, while his falling
in love at all is not extremely probable. Here again I cannot go with the objectors.
Darcy’s own account of the way in which his pride had been pampered, is perfectly
rational and sufficient; and nothing could be, psychologically speaking, a causa verior
for its sudden restoration to healthy conditions than the shock of Elizabeth’s scornful
refusal acting on a nature ex hypothesi generous. Nothing in even our author is finer
and more delicately touched than the change of his demeanour at the sudden meeting in
the grounds of Pemberley. Had he been a bad prig or a bad coxcomb, he might have
been still smarting under his rejection, or suspicious that the girl had come husband-

hunting. His being neither is exactly consistent with the probable feelings of a man
spoilt in the common sense, but not really injured in disposition, and thoroughly in love.
As for his being in love, Elizabeth has given as just an exposition of the causes of that
phenomenon as Darcy has of the conditions of his unregenerate state, only she has of
course not counted in what was due to her own personal charm.
The secret of that charm many men and not a few women, from Miss Austen herself
downwards, have felt, and like most charms it is a thing rather to be felt than to be
explained. Elizabeth of course belongs to the allegro or allegra division of the army of
Venus. Miss Austen was always provokingly chary of description in regard to her
beauties; and except the fine eyes, and a hint or two that she had at any rate sometimes
a bright complexion, and was not very tall, we hear nothing about her looks. But her
chief difference from other heroines of the lively type seems to lie first in her being
distinctly clever—almost strong-minded, in the better sense of that objectionable word—
and secondly in her being entirely destitute of ill-nature for all her propensity to tease
and the sharpness of her tongue. Elizabeth can give at least as good as she gets when
she is attacked; but she never “scratches,” and she never attacks first. Some of the
merest obsoletenesses of phrase and manner give one or two of her early speeches a
slight pertness, but that is nothing, and when she comes to serious business, as in the
great proposal scene with Darcy (which is, as it should be, the climax of the interest of
the book), and in the final ladies’ battle with Lady Catherine, she is unexceptionable.
Then too she is a perfectly natural girl. She does not disguise from herself or anybody
that she resents Darcy’s first ill-mannered personality with as personal a feeling. (By the
way, the reproach that the ill-manners of this speech are overdone is certainly unjust;
for things of the same kind, expressed no doubt less stiltedly but more coarsely, might
have been heard in more than one ball-room during this very year from persons who
ought to have been no worse bred than Darcy.) And she lets the injury done to Jane and
the contempt shown to the rest of her family aggravate this resentment in the healthiest
way in the world.
Still, all this does not explain her charm, which, taking beauty as a common form of
all heroines, may perhaps consist in the addition to her playfulness, her wit, her
affectionate and natural disposition, of a certain fearlessness very uncommon in
heroines of her type and age. Nearly all of them would have been in speechless awe of
the magnificent Darcy; nearly all of them would have palpitated and fluttered at the idea
of proposals, even naughty ones, from the fascinating Wickham. Elizabeth, with nothing
offensive, nothing viraginous, nothing of the “New Woman” about her, has by nature
what the best modern (not “new”) women have by education and experience, a perfect
freedom from the idea that all men may bully her if they choose, and that most will away
with her if they can. Though not in the least “impudent and mannish grown,” she has no
mere sensibility, no nasty niceness about her. The form of passion common and likely to
seem natural in Miss Austen’s day was so invariably connected with the display of one
or the other, or both of these qualities, that she has not made Elizabeth outwardly
passionate. But I, at least, have not the slightest doubt that she would have married
Darcy just as willingly without Pemberley as with it, and anybody who can read between

lines will not find the lovers’ conversations in the final chapters so frigid as they might
have looked to the Della Cruscans of their own day, and perhaps do look to the Della
Cruscans of this.
And, after all, what is the good of seeking for the reason of charm?—it is there.
There were better sense in the sad mechanic exercise of determining the reason of its
absence where it is not. In the novels of the last hundred years there are vast numbers of
young ladies with whom it might be a pleasure to fall in love; there are at least five with
whom, as it seems to me, no man of taste and spirit can help doing so. Their names are,
in chronological order, Elizabeth Bennet, Diana Vernon, Argemone Lavington, Beatrix
Esmond, and Barbara Grant. I should have been most in love with Beatrix and
Argemone; I should, I think, for mere occasional companionship, have preferred Diana
and Barbara. But to live with and to marry, I do not know that any one of the four can
come into competition with Elizabeth.
George Saintsbury.

PAGE
Frontispiece iv
Title-page v
Dedication vii
Heading to Preface ix
Heading to List of Illustrations xxv
Heading to Chapter I. 1
“He came down to see the place” 2
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet 5
“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it” 6
“I’m the tallest” 9
“He rode a black horse” 10
“When the party entered” 12
“She is tolerable” 15
Heading to Chapter IV. 18
Heading to Chapter V. 22
“Without once opening his lips” 24
Tailpiece to Chapter V. 26
Heading to Chapter VI. 27
“The entreaties of several” 31
“A note for Miss Bennet” 36

“Cheerful prognostics” 40
“The apothecary came” 43
“Covering a screen” 45
“Mrs. Bennet and her two youngest girls” 53
Heading to Chapter X. 60
“No, no; stay where you are” 67
“Piling up the fire” 69
Heading to Chapter XII. 75
Heading to Chapter XIII. 78
Heading to Chapter XIV. 84
“Protested that he never read novels” 87
Heading to Chapter XV. 89
Heading to Chapter XVI. 95
“The officers of the ——shire” 97
“Delighted to see their dear friend again” 108
Heading to Chapter XVIII. 113
“Such very superior dancing is not often seen” 118
“To assure you in the most animated language” 132
Heading to Chapter XX. 139
“They entered the breakfast-room” 143
Heading to Chapter XXI. 146
“Walked back with them” 148
Heading to Chapter XXII. 154
“So much love and eloquence” 156
“Protested he must be entirely mistaken” 161
“Whenever she spoke in a low voice” 166
Heading to Chapter XXIV. 168
Heading to Chapter XXV. 175
“Offended two or three young ladies” 177
“Will you come and see me?” 181
“On the stairs” 189
“At the door” 194
“In conversation with the ladies” 198
“Lady Catherine,” said she, “you have given me a treasure” 200

Heading to Chapter XXX. 209
“He never failed to inform them” 211
“The gentlemen accompanied him” 213
Heading to Chapter XXXI. 215
Heading to Chapter XXXII. 221
“Accompanied by their aunt” 225
“On looking up” 228
Heading to Chapter XXXIV. 235
“Hearing herself called” 243
Heading to Chapter XXXVI. 253
“Meeting accidentally in town” 256
“His parting obeisance” 261
“Dawson” 263
“The elevation of his feelings” 267
“They had forgotten to leave any message” 270
“How nicely we are crammed in!” 272
Heading to Chapter XL. 278
“I am determined never to speak of it again” 283
“When Colonel Miller’s regiment went away” 285
“Tenderly flirting” 290
The arrival of the Gardiners 294
“Conjecturing as to the date” 301
Heading to Chapter XLIV. 318
“To make herself agreeable to all” 321
“Engaged by the river” 327
Heading to Chapter XLVI. 334
“I have not an instant to lose” 339
“The first pleasing earnest of their welcome” 345
The Post 359
“To whom I have related the affair” 363
Heading to Chapter XLIX. 368
“But perhaps you would like to read it” 370
“The spiteful old ladies” 377
“With an affectionate smile” 385

“I am sure she did not listen” 393
“Mr. Darcy with him” 404
“Jane happened to look round” 415
“Mrs. Long and her nieces” 420
“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak to you” 422
Heading to Chapter LVI. 431
“After a short survey” 434
“But now it comes out” 442
“The efforts of his aunt” 448
“Unable to utter a syllable” 457
“The obsequious civility” 466
Heading to Chapter LXI. 472
The End 476

Chapter I.

I T is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good
fortune must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first
entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding
families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their
daughters.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that
Netherfield Park is let at last?”
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about
it.”
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
“Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife, impatiently.
“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

“He came down to see the place”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

This was invitation enough.
“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young
man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a
chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed with
Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of
his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.”
“What is his name?”
“Bingley.”
“Is he married or single?”
“Oh, single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand
a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”
“How so? how can it affect them?”
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome? You must
know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.”

“Is that his design in settling here?”
“Design? Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he may fall in love
with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.”
“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go—or you may send them by
themselves, which perhaps will be still better; for as you are as handsome as any of
them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the party.”
“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have had my share of beauty, but I do not
pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown-up daughters,
she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.”
“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”
“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the
neighbourhood.”
“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”
“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be for one
of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account; for
in general, you know, they visit no new comers. Indeed you must go, for it will be
impossible for us to visit him, if you do not.”
“You are over scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you;
and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying
whichever he chooses of the girls—though I must throw in a good word for my little
Lizzy.”
“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others: and I am
sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you
are always giving her the preference.”
“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he: “they are all silly
and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her
sisters.”
“Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight
in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.”
“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old
friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least.”
“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”
“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a
year come into the neighbourhood.”
“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not visit them.”
“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all.”
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and
caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his
wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develope. She was a
woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was

discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her
daughters married: its solace was visiting and news.

Mr. & Mrs. Bennet

[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

I hope Mr. Bingley will like it.

CHAPTER II.
R. BENNET was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley.
He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his
wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid she
had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner.
Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly
addressed her with,—
“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”
“We are not in a way to know what Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother, resentfully,
“since we are not to visit.”
“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the assemblies,
and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.”
“I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of her own.
She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her.”

“No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that you do not depend on
her serving you.”
Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable to contain herself, began
scolding one of her daughters.
“Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven’s sake! Have a little compassion on my
nerves. You tear them to pieces.”
“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she times them ill.”
“I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty, fretfully. “When is your next
ball to be, Lizzy?”
“To-morrow fortnight.”
“Ay, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come back till the day
before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she will not know him
herself.”
“Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr.
Bingley to her.”
“Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him myself;
how can you be so teasing?”
“I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is certainly very little.
One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight. But if we do not
venture, somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their
chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I
will take it on myself.”
The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, “Nonsense, nonsense!”
“What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he. “Do you
consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense? I
cannot quite agree with you there. What say you, Mary? For you are a young lady of
deep reflection, I know, and read great books, and make extracts.”
Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.
“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return to Mr. Bingley.”
“I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.
“I am sorry to hear that; but why did you not tell me so before? If I had known as
much this morning, I certainly would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I
have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”
The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished—that of Mrs. Bennet
perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to
declare that it was what she had expected all the while.
“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you at
last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how
pleased I am! And it is such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning,
and never said a word about it till now.”

“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and, as he
spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.
“What an excellent father you have, girls,” said she, when the door was shut. “I do
not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness; or me either, for that
matter. At our time of life, it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new
acquaintances every day; but for your sakes we would do anything. Lydia, my love,
though you are the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next
ball.”
“Oh,” said Lydia, stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I am the youngest, I’m the
tallest.”
The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would return Mr.
Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner.

“I’m the tallest”

He rode a black horse.

CHAPTER III.
OT all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters,
could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any
satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways,
with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but
he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at last obliged to accept the
second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her report was highly
favourable. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully
handsome, extremely agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next
assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing
was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart
were entertained.
“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,” said Mrs.
Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to
wish for.”
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten minutes with
him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young
ladies, of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were
somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper
window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards despatched; and already had Mrs.
Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer
arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day,
and consequently unable to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was
quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon
after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might always be flying
about from one place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady
Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his

“When the Party entered”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed
that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the
assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of ladies; but were comforted the day
before the ball by hearing that, instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from
London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the assembly-room, it
consisted of only five altogether: Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest,
and another young man.
Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike: he had a pleasant countenance,
and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided
fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr.
Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features,
noble mien, and the report, which was in general circulation within five minutes after his
entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine
figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he
was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a
disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be
above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire
could save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being
unworthy to be compared with his friend.
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the
room: he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed
so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must
speak for themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any
other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking
occasionally to one of his own party. His character was decided. He was the proudest,
most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come
there again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his
general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one
of her daughters.
Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two
dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to
overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a
few minutes to press his friend to join it.
“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by
yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”
“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted
with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are

engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a
punishment to me to stand up with.”
“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my
honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and
there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.”
“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking
at the eldest Miss Bennet.
“Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters
sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let
me ask my partner to introduce you.”

“She is tolerable”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

“Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till,
catching her eye, he withdrew his own, and coldly said, “She is tolerable: but not

handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to
young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and
enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”
Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth remained with
no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story, however, with great spirit
among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything
ridiculous.
The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had
seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced
with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified
by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure.
Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the
neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough to be never without
partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned,
therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they
were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a book, he was
regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the
event of an evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped
that all his wife’s views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found that
he had a very different story to hear.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a most delightful
evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Jane was so admired, nothing
could be like it. Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite
beautiful, and danced with her twice. Only think of that, my dear: he actually danced
with her twice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second time.
First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her; but,
however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can, you know; and he seemed
quite struck with Jane as she was going down the dance. So he inquired who she was,
and got introduced, and asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with
Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and
the two sixth with Lizzy, and the Boulanger——”
“If he had had any compassion for me,” cried her husband impatiently, “he would not
have danced half so much! For God’s sake, say no more of his partners. O that he had
sprained his ancle in the first dance!”
“Oh, my dear,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “I am quite delighted with him. He is so
excessively handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw
anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown
——”
Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any description of
finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of the subject, and related, with
much bitterness of spirit, and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.

“But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his
fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and
so conceited, that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there,
fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had
been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”

CHAPTER IV.
HEN Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in
her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much she
admired him.
“He is just what a young-man ought to be,” said she, “sensible, good-
humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! so much ease, with such perfect
good breeding!”
“He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man ought likewise to be
if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.”
“I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect
such a compliment.”
“Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between us.
Compliments always take you by surprise, and me never. What could be more natural
than his asking you again? He could not help seeing that you were about five times as
pretty as every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he
certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a
stupider person.”
“Dear Lizzy!”
“Oh, you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see
a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you
speak ill of a human being in my life.”
“I would wish not to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak what I think.”

“I know you do: and it is that which makes the wonder. With your good sense, to be
so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is
common enough; one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or
design,—to take the good of everybody’s character and make it still better, and say
nothing of the bad,—belongs to you alone. And so, you like this man’s sisters, too, do
you? Their manners are not equal to his.”
“Certainly not, at first; but they are very pleasing women when you converse with
them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep his house; and I am much
mistaken if we shall not find a very charming neighbour in her.”
Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced: their behaviour at the assembly
had not been calculated to please in general; and with more quickness of observation
and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and with a judgment, too, unassailed by any
attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve them. They were, in fact,
very fine ladies; not deficient in good-humour when they were pleased, nor in the power
of being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited. They were rather
handsome; had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town; had a
fortune of twenty thousand pounds; were in the habit of spending more than they ought,
and of associating with people of rank; and were, therefore, in every respect entitled to
think well of themselves and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in the
north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories than that
their brother’s fortune and their own had been acquired by trade.
Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred thousand pounds
from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate, but did not live to do it. Mr.
Bingley intended it likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but, as he was
now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of
those who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the
remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.
His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but though he was
now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside at
his table; nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less
disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been
of age two years when he was tempted, by an accidental recommendation, to look at
Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it, for half an hour; was pleased with the
situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and
took it immediately.
Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of a great
opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the easiness, openness, and
ductility of his temper, though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own,
and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy’s
regard, Bingley had the firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion. In
understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient; but Darcy
was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious; and his manners,

though well bred, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage.
Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared; Darcy was continually giving
offence.
The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently
characteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier girls in his life;
everybody had been most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no
stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could
not conceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of
people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had felt the
smallest interest, and from none received either attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he
acknowledged to be pretty; but she smiled too much.
Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so; but still they admired her and liked her,
and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom they should not object to know
more of. Miss Bennet was therefore established as a sweet girl; and their brother felt
authorized by such commendation to think of her as he chose.

CHAPTER V.
ITHIN a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets
were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade in
Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the honour of
knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty. The distinction
had, perhaps, been felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his
business and to his residence in a small market town; and, quitting them both, he had
removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that
period Lucas Lodge; where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and,
unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For,
though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all
attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at
St. James’s had made him courteous.
Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable
neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible,
intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend.
That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a ball was
absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly brought the former to
Longbourn to hear and to communicate.
“You began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet, with civil self-command,
to Miss Lucas. “You were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.”
“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”

“Oh, you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be sure that
did seem as if he admired her—indeed, I rather believe he did—I heard something about
it—but I hardly know what—something about Mr. Robinson.”
“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson: did not I
mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he liked our Meryton assemblies,
and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty women in the room, and
which he thought the prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last question, ‘Oh,
the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt: there cannot be two opinions on that point.’ ”
“Upon my word! Well, that was very decided, indeed—that does seem as if—but,
however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”
“My overhearings were more to the purpose than yours, Eliza,” said Charlotte. “Mr.
Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he? Poor Eliza! to be only just
tolerable.”
“I beg you will not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his ill-treatment, for he is
such a disagreeable man that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs.
Long told me last night that he sat close to her for half an hour without once opening his
lips.”

“Without once opening his lips”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

“Are you quite sure, ma’am? Is not there a little mistake?” said Jane. “I certainly saw
Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”
“Ay, because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he could not help
answering her; but she said he seemed very angry at being spoke to.”
“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much unless among his
intimate acquaintance. With them he is remarkably agreeable.”
“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very agreeable, he would
have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was; everybody says that he is eat up
with pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a
carriage, and had to come to the ball in a hack chaise.”
“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas, “but I wish he had
danced with Eliza.”
“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with him, if I were you.”
“I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you never to dance with him.”
“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend me so much as pride often does,
because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with
family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so
express it, he has a right to be proud.”
“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had
not mortified mine.”
“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a
very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is
very common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are
very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some
quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the
words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride
relates more to our opinion of ourselves; vanity to what we would have others think of
us.”
“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came with his sisters, “I
should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle
of wine every day.”
“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs. Bennet; “and if
I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly.”
The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she would; and
the argument ended only with the visit.

CHAPTER VI.
HE ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit was
returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing manners grew on the good-
will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found to
be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of
being better acquainted with them was expressed towards the two eldest. By
Jane this attention was received with the greatest pleasure; but Elizabeth
still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody, hardly excepting even her
sister, and could not like them; though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value,
as arising, in all probability, from the influence of their brother’s admiration. It was
generally evident, whenever they met, that he did admire her; and to her it was equally
evident that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for
him from the first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she considered with
pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane united
with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and an uniform cheerfulness of
manner, which would guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned
this to her friend, Miss Lucas.
“It may, perhaps, be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to impose on the public
in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman
conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the
opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world
equally in the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment,
that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all begin freely—a slight preference is
natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love
without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show more
affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do
more than like her, if she does not help him on.”

“But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can perceive her
regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to discover it too.”
“Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you do.”
“But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavor to conceal it, he must find
it out.”
“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane meet
tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they always see each other in
large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in
conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half hour in which
she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for
falling in love as much as she chooses.”
“Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is in question but the
desire of being well married; and if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any
husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not Jane’s feelings; she is not acting
by design. As yet she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its
reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him
at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined in company
with him four times. This is not quite enough to make her understand his character.”
“Not as you represent it. Had she merely dined with him, she might only have
discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must remember that four evenings
have been also spent together—and four evenings may do a great deal.”
“Yes: these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un
better than Commerce, but with respect to any other leading characteristic, I do not
imagine that much has been unfolded.”
“Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were
married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if
she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is
entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to
each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least.
They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of
vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with
whom you are to pass your life.”
“You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and
that you would never act in this way yourself.”
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attention to her sister, Elizabeth was far from
suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his
friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty: he had looked at her
without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise.
But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good
feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the
beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally
mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect

symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing;
and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he
was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly unaware: to her he was
only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her
handsome enough to dance with.
He began to wish to know more of her; and, as a step towards conversing with her
himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at
Sir William Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled.
“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my conversation
with Colonel Forster?”
“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”
“But if he does it any more, I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about.
He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall
soon grow afraid of him.”

“The entreaties of several” [Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any
intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him,
which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said,—
“Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now,
when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?”
“With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic.”
“You are severe on us.”
“It will be her turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am going to open the
instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”

“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always wanting me to play
and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you
would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those
who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On Miss Lucas’s
persevering, however, she added, “Very well; if it must be so, it must.” And gravely
glancing at Mr. Darcy, “There is a very fine old saying, which everybody here is of
course familiar with—‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge,’—and I shall keep mine
to swell my song.”
Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and
before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was
eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of
being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and
accomplishments, was always impatient for display.
Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it
had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a
higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had
been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at
the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish
airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with some of the Lucases, and two or
three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room.
Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the
evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his own
thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus
began:—
“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is nothing
like dancing, after all. I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies.”
“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less
polished societies of the world: every savage can dance.”
Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he continued, after a
pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I doubt not that you are an adept in the
science yourself, Mr. Darcy.”
“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”
“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often
dance at St. James’s?”
“Never, sir.”
“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”
“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.”
“You have a house in town, I conclude?”
Mr. Darcy bowed.
“I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself, for I am fond of superior
society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady

Lucas.”
He paused in hopes of an answer: but his companion was not disposed to make any;
and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the notion of
doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her,—
“My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to
present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I
am sure, when so much beauty is before you.” And, taking her hand, he would have
given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it,
when she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,—
“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose
that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”
Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of her hand, but
in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his
attempt at persuasion.
“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the
happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general,
he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half hour.”
“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
“He is, indeed: but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot
wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a partner?”
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with the
gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by
Miss Bingley,—
“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”
“I should imagine not.”
“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this
manner,—in such society; and, indeed, I am quite of your opinion. I was never more
annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the nothingness, and yet the self-
importance, of all these people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”
“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably
engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in
the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her
what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied, with great
intrepidity,—
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment. How long
has she been such a favourite? and pray when am I to wish you joy?”
“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s imagination is
very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I

knew you would be wishing me joy.”
“Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as absolutely settled.
You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at
Pemberley with you.”
He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to entertain herself in
this manner; and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed along.

A note for Miss Bennet.

CHAPTER VII.
R. BENNET’S property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two
thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in
default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother’s fortune,
though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of

his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.
She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their father and
succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of
trade.
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient
distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a
week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two
youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these
attentions: their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing better
offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish
conversation for the evening; and, however bare of news the country in general might
be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were
well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in
the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head-
quarters.
Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence.
Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers’ names and connections.
Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers
themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity
unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large
fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their
eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.
After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly
observed,—
“From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest
girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.”
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect
indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of
seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning to London.
“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so ready to think
your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of anybody’s children, it should
not be of my own, however.”
“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.”
“Yes; but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”
“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I had hoped that
our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think
our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.”
“My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father
and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will not think about officers any
more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and,
indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a

year, should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel
Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in his regimentals.”
“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do
not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did when they first came; she sees them now
very often standing in Clarke’s library.”
Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a note for
Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs.
Bennet’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her
daughter read,—
“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well, Jane, make
haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”
“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.
“My dear friend,
“If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be
in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives; for a whole day’s tête-à-tête
between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the
receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. Yours ever,
“Caroline Bingley.”
“With the officers!” cried Lydia: “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of that.”
“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet; “that is very unlucky.”
“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.
“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and
then you must stay all night.”
“That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that they would
not offer to send her home.”
“Oh, but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to Meryton; and the
Hursts have no horses to theirs.”
“I had much rather go in the coach.”
“But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the
farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?”

Cheerful prognostics

“They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.”

“But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s purpose will be
answered.”
She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses were
engaged; Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her mother attended her to
the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane
had not been gone long before it rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her
mother was delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane
certainly could not come back.
“This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet, more than once, as if the
credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not
aware of all the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant
from Netherfield brought the following note for Elizabeth:—
“My dearest Lizzie,
“I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my
getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning home till I
am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you
should hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a sore throat and a headache,
there is not much the matter with me.
“Yours, etc.”
“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud, “if your
daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness—if she should die—it would be a
comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”
“Oh, I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling colds. She
will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very well. I would go and
see her if I could have the carriage.”
Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, determined to go to her, though the carriage was
not to be had: and as she was no horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She
declared her resolution.
“How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a thing, in all this
dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there.”
“I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want.”
“Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the horses?”
“No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing, when one has
a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.”
“I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but every impulse of
feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in
proportion to what is required.”
“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia. Elizabeth
accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off together.

“If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we may see
something of Captain Carter, before he goes.”
In Meryton they parted: the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one of the
officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a
quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles, with impatient activity, and
finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a
face glowing with the warmth of exercise.
She was shown into the breakfast parlour, where all but Jane were assembled, and
where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. That she should have walked three
miles so early in the day in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in
contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their brother’s
manners there was something better than politeness—there was good-humour and
kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was
divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her
complexion and doubt as to the occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter
was thinking only of his breakfast.
Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss Bennet had
slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not well enough to leave her room.
Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been
withheld by the fear of giving alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how
much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,
however, to much conversation; and when Miss Bingley left them together, could
attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness she was
treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.
When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth began to like
them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane.
The apothecary came; and having examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that
she had caught a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;
advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed
readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely. Elizabeth did
not quit her room for a moment, nor were the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen
being out, they had in fact nothing to do elsewhere.
When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very unwillingly
said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only wanted a little pressing to
accept it, when Jane testified such concern at parting with her that Miss Bingley was
obliged to convert the offer of the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for
the present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was despatched to
Longbourn, to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring back a supply of clothes.

“The Apothecary came”

Covering a screen.

CHAPTER VIII.
T five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six Elizabeth was
summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then poured in, and amongst which she
had the pleasure of distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley, she could
not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing

this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how
shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being
ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their
indifference towards Jane, when not immediately before them, restored
Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.
Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could regard with any
complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most
pleasing; and they prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed she
was considered by the others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley
was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom
Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at cards,
who, when he found her prefer a plain dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.
When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley began
abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were pronounced to be
very bad indeed,—a mixture of pride and impertinence: she had no conversation, no
style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added,—
“She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall
never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild.”
“She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to
come at all! Why must she be scampering about the country, because her sister had a
cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowzy!”
“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am
absolutely certain, and the gown which had been let down to hide it not doing its office.”
“Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was all lost upon
me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the
room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”
“You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am inclined to
think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.”
“Certainly not.”
“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her ancles
in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an
abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to
decorum.”
“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said Bingley.
“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper, “that this
adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”
“Not at all,” he replied: “they were brightened by the exercise.” A short pause
followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again,—
“I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet,—she is really a very sweet girl,—and I
wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and
such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”

“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton?”
“Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”
“That is capital,” added her sister; and they both laughed heartily.
“If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it would not make
them one jot less agreeable.”
“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any
consideration in the world,” replied Darcy.
To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent,
and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar
relations.
With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on leaving the
dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and
Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of
seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should
go down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room, she found the whole party at loo,
and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high, she
declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself, for the short
time she could stay below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.”
“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a great reader, and
has no pleasure in anything else.”
“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried Elizabeth; “I am not a great
reader, and I have pleasure in many things.”
“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and I hope it
will soon be increased by seeing her quite well.”
Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few
books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library
afforded.
“And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am
an idle fellow; and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into.”
Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room.
“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left so small a
collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”
“It ought to be good,” he replied: “it has been the work of many generations.”
“And then you have added so much to it yourself—you are always buying books.”
“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these.”
“Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble
place. Charles, when you build your house, I wish it may be half as delightful as
Pemberley.”
“I wish it may.”

“But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and
take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than
Derbyshire.”
“With all my heart: I will buy Pemberley itself, if Darcy will sell it.”
“I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”
“Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by
purchase than by imitation.”
Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for
her book; and, soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed
herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game.
“Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley: “will she be as tall
as I am?”
“I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.”
“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much.
Such a countenance, such manners, and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her
performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”
“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so
very accomplished as they all are.”
“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”
“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I
scarcely know any one who cannot do all this; and I am sure I never heard a young lady
spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”
“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has too much
truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by
netting a purse or covering a screen; but I am very far from agreeing with you in your
estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen in the
whole range of my acquaintance that are really accomplished.”
“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.
“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an
accomplished woman.”
“Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.”
“Oh, certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really esteemed
accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must
have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern
languages, to deserve the word; and, besides all this, she must possess a certain
something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and
expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.”
“All this she must possess,” added Darcy; “and to all she must yet add something
more substantial in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

“I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather
wonder now at your knowing any.”
“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?”
“I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and application,
and elegance, as you describe, united.”
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied
doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this
description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their
inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end,
Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.
“Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, “is one of those
young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their
own; and with many men, I daresay, it succeeds; but, in my opinion, it is a paltry device,
a very mean art.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, “there is
meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation.
Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.”
Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject.
Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could
not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones’s being sent for immediately; while his sisters,
convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to
town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was
not so unwilling to comply with their brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr.
Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better.
Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They
solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper; while he could find no better
relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible
attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.

Mrs Bennet and her two youngest girls.

CHAPTER IX.
LIZABETH passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, and in the
morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the
inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,
and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note
sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own

judgment of her situation. The note was immediately despatched, and its contents as
quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached
Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.
Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very
miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no
wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove
her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her daughter’s proposal of being
carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all
advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley’s appearance and
invitation, the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour.
Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than
she expected.
“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr.
Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your
kindness.”
“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not
hear of her removal.”
“You may depend upon it, madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, “that Miss
Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us.”
Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
“I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends, I do not know what
would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the
greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without
exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are
nothing to her. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over
that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You
will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.”
“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if I should resolve to
quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I
consider myself as quite fixed here.”
“That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Elizabeth.
“You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards her.
“Oh yes—I understand you perfectly.”
“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through, I am
afraid, is pitiful.”
“That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is
more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”
“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild
manner that you are suffered to do at home.”
“I did not know before,” continued Bingley, immediately, “that you were a studier of
character. It must be an amusing study.”

“Yes; but intricate characters are the most amusing. They have at least that
advantage.”
“The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but few subjects for such a study.
In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.”
“But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in
them for ever.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country
neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in
town.”
Everybody was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned
silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him,
continued her triumph,—
“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my part,
except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr.
Bingley?”
“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it; and when I am in
town, it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally
happy in either.”
“Ay, that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,” looking at
Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.”
“Indeed, mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. “You
quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be
met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”
“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people
in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine
with four-and-twenty families.”
Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His
sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive
smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother’s thoughts,
now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since her coming away.
“Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr.
Bingley—is not he? so much the man of fashion! so genteel and so easy! He has always
something to say to everybody. That is my idea of good breeding; and those persons
who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths quite mistake the
matter.”
“Did Charlotte dine with you?”
“No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For my part,
Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work; my daughters are
brought up differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a
very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think
Charlotte so very plain; but then she is our particular friend.”

“She seems a very pleasant young woman,” said Bingley.
“Oh dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said
so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child; but to be sure,
Jane—one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not
trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen there was a gentleman at my brother
Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her, that my sister-in-law was sure he would
make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought
her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.”
“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth, impatiently. “There has been many a
one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of
poetry in driving away love!”
“I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love,” said Darcy.
“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already.
But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet
will starve it entirely away.”
Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest
her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of
nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr.
Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr.
Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil
also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part, indeed, without much
graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage.
Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had
been whispering to each other during the whole visit; and the result of it was, that the
youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the
country to give a ball at Netherfield.
Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-
humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her
into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-
consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle’s good dinners and
her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very
equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded
him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he
did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to her mother’s ear.
“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and, when your sister is
recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not
wish to be dancing while she is ill?”
Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh yes—it would be much better to wait till Jane
was well; and by that time, most likely, Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And
when you have given your ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I
shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.”

Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to
Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and
Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their
censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on fine eyes.

CHAPTER X.
HE day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss
Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who
continued, though slowly, to mend; and, in the evening, Elizabeth joined
their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr.
Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the
progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister.
Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to
what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the
lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his
letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious
dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each.
“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”
He made no answer.
“You write uncommonly fast.”
“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”
“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters
of business, too! How odious I should think them!”
“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.”

“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens
remarkably well.”
“Thank you—but I always mend my own.”
“How can you contrive to write so even?”
He was silent.
“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let
her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I
think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have
not room to do them justice.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such
charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”
“They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to
determine.”
“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with ease cannot write
ill.”
“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her brother, “because
he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not
you, Darcy?”
“My style of writing is very different from yours.”
“Oh,” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He
leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”
“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them; by which means my
letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”
“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.”
“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of humility. It is often
only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.”
“And which of the two do you call my little recent piece of modesty?”
“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you
consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution,
which, if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing
anything with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any
attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this
morning, that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five
minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself; and yet what
is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business
undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”

“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things
that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself
to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the
character of needless precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.”
“I daresay you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone
with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any
man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley,
you had better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it—you would probably not
go—and, at another word, might stay a month.”
“You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr. Bingley did not do justice
to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself.”
“I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting what my friend says
into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a
turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think the
better of me if, under such a circumstance, I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as
fast as I could.”
“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for
by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”
“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter—Darcy must speak for
himself.”
“You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, but which I
have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your
representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to
desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it
without offering one argument in favour of its propriety.”
“To yield readily—easily—to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you.”
“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.”
“You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and
affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request,
without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of
such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till
the circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon.
But in general and ordinary cases, between friend and friend, where one of them is
desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill
of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”
“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather
more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as
the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?”
“By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their
comparative height and size, for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss
Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall

fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I
declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy on particular occasions, and in
particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has
nothing to do.”
Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was rather
offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity
he had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.
“I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an argument, and want to
silence this.”
“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will
defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say
whatever you like of me.”
“What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. Darcy had much
better finish his letter.”
Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for the
indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to the pianoforte, and after
a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way, which the other as politely and more
earnestly negatived, she seated herself.
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister; and while they were thus employed, Elizabeth could
not help observing, as she turned over some music-books that lay on the instrument,
how frequently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose
that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man, and yet that he should look
at her because he disliked her was still more strange. She could only imagine, however,
at last, that she drew his notice because there was something about her more wrong and
reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The
supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation.
After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch
air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her,—
“Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of
dancing a reel?”
She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her
silence.
“Oh,” said she, “I heard you before; but I could not immediately determine what to
say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of
despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and
cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to
tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all; and now despise me if you dare.”
“Indeed I do not dare.”
Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but
there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for

her to affront anybody, and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was
by her. He really believed that, were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he
should be in some danger.
Miss Bingley saw, or suspected, enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the
recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid
of Elizabeth.
She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their
supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.
“I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, “you
will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the
advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, to cure the younger girls of
running after the officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to
check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady
possesses.”

“No, no; stay where you are”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”

“Oh yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at
Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession,
you know, only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you must not attempt to
have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?”
“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression; but their colour and shape,
and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied.”
At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth
herself.
“I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some confusion,
lest they had been overheard.
“You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without telling us
that you were coming out.”
Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself.
The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness, and immediately said,—
“This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue.”
But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly
answered,—
“No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon
advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye.”
She then ran gaily off, rejoicing, as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home
again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room
for a couple of hours that evening.

Piling up the fire.

CHAPTER XI.
HEN the ladies removed after dinner Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and
seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room,
where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of
pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were
during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers of
conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy,
relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit.
But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object; Miss Bingley’s
eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he

had advanced many steps. He addressed himself directly to Miss Bennet with a polite
congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad;” but
diffuseness and warmth remained for Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and
attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from
the change of room; and she removed, at his desire, to the other side of the fireplace, that
she might be farther from the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to
anyone else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight.
When tea was over Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table—but in
vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards, and Mr.
Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to
play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst
had, therefore, nothing to do but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep.
Darcy took up a book. Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied
in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in her brother’s conversation
with Miss Bennet.
Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy’s
progress through his book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making
some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any
conversation; he merely answered her question and read on. At length, quite exhausted
by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it
was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to
spend an evening in this way! I declare, after all, there is no enjoyment like reading! How
much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I
shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”
No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her
eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when, hearing her brother mentioning
a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said,—
“By the bye Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I
would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I
am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a
punishment than a pleasure.”
“If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it
begins; but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing, and as soon as Nicholls has made
white soup enough I shall send round my cards.”
“I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were carried on in a
different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such
a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing
made the order of the day.”
“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say; but it would not be near so much
like a ball.”
Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards got up and walked about the
room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed,

was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort
more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said,—
“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about
the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”
Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less
in the real object of her civility: Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the
novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously
closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing
that he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down the room
together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. What could he
mean? She was dying to know what could be his meaning—and asked Elizabeth whether
she could at all understand him.
“Not at all,” was her answer; “but, depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and
our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.”
Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in anything, and
persevered, therefore, in requiring an explanation of his two motives.
“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon as she
allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing the evening because
you are in each other’s confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are
conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking: if the first, I
should be completely in your way; and if the second, I can admire you much better as I
sit by the fire.”
“Oh, shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so abominable. How
shall we punish him for such a speech?”
“Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said Elizabeth. “We can all plague
and punish one another. Tease him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know
how it is to be done.”
“But upon my honour I do not. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught
me that. Tease calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us
there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to
laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.”
“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an uncommon
advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to me to
have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh.”
“Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and
best of men,—nay, the wisest and best of their actions,—may be rendered ridiculous by a
person whose first object in life is a joke.”
“Certainly,” replied Elizabeth, “there are such people, but I hope I am not one of
them. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and
inconsistencies, do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I
suppose, are precisely what you are without.”

“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study of my life to avoid
those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.”
“Such as vanity and pride.”
“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a real superiority of
mind—pride will be always under good regulation.”
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley; “and pray
what is the result?”
“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself
without disguise.”
“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are
not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little
yielding; certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies
and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are
not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called
resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost for ever.”
“That is a failing, indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment is a shade in a
character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe
from me.”
“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural
defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”
“And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody.”
“And yours,” he replied, with a smile, “is wilfully to misunderstand them.”
“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which
she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst.”
Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was opened; and Darcy,
after a few moments’ recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of
paying Elizabeth too much attention.

CHAPTER XII.
N consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next
morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the
course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters
remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly
finish Jane’s week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure
before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth’s
wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that
they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her
postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to
stay longer, she could spare them very well. Against staying longer,
however, Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it
would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, of being considered as intruding themselves
needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at
length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should
be mentioned, and the request made.
The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of
wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow
their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay;
for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.
The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and
repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her—that she was
not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.

To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence: Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long
enough. She attracted him more than he liked; and Miss Bingley was uncivil to her and
more teasing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no
sign of admiration should now escape him—nothing that could elevate her with the hope
of influencing his felicity; sensible that, if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour
during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his
purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday: and though
they were at one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most
conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.
On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took
place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her
affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would
always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most
tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party
in the liveliest spirits.
They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet wondered
at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane
would have caught cold again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions of
pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle.
The evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation,
and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.
They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human nature; and
had some new extracts to admire and some new observations of threadbare morality to
listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had
been done, and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday;
several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle; a private had been flogged; and it
had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.

CHAPTER XIII
hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at breakfast the next
morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to
expect an addition to our family party.”
“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure,
unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in; and I hope my dinners are good
enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.”
“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman and a stranger.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley, I am
sure. Why, Jane—you never dropped a word of this—you sly thing! Well, I am sure I
shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! how unlucky! there is not a
bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill this
moment.”
“It is not Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I never saw in the
whole course of my life.”
This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being eagerly
questioned by his wife and five daughters at once.
After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:—“About a
month ago I received this letter, and about a fortnight ago I answered it; for I thought it a
case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins,
who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.”
“Oh, my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk
of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should
be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have
tried long ago to do something or other about it.”

Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail. They had often
attempted it before: but it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of
reason; and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away
from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet; “and nothing can clear Mr.
Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you
may, perhaps, be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”
“No, that I am sure I shall not: and I think it was very impertinent of him to write to
you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why could not he keep on
quarrelling with you, as his father did before him?”
“Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that head, as you will
hear.”
“Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.
“Dear Sir,
“The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always
gave me much uneasiness; and, since I have had the misfortune to lose him, I have
frequently wished to heal the breach: but, for some time, I was kept back by my own
doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms
with anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.”—‘There, Mrs.
Bennet.’—“My mind, however, is now made up on the subject; for, having received
ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of
the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose
bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it
shall be my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her
Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted
by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and
establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on
these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of good-will are highly
commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn
estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive
branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable
daughters, and beg leave to apologize for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to
make them every possible amends; but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection
to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and
your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o’clock, and shall probably trespass on
your hospitality till the Saturday se’nnight following, which I can do without any
inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a
Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I
remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-
wisher and friend,
“William Collins.”

“At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,” said Mr.
Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young
man, upon my word; and, I doubt not, will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if
Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again.”
“There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however; and, if he is disposed
to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him.”
“Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can mean to make us the
atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit.”
Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and
his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it
were required.
“He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him out. There is something
very pompous in his style. And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the
entail? We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could. Can he be a sensible man, sir?”
“No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There
is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter which promises well. I am
impatient to see him.”
“In point of composition,” said Mary, “his letter does not seem defective. The idea of
the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed.”
To Catherine and Lydia neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting.
It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now
some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other
colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins’s letter had done away much of her ill-will, and
she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which astonished her husband
and daughters.
Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the
whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and
Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself.
He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and
stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he
complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters, said he had heard
much of their beauty, but that, in this instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and
added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage.
This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs. Bennet, who
quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily,—
“You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so; for
else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.”
“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”
“Ah, sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess. Not
that I mean to find fault with you, for such things, I know, are all chance in this world.
There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.”

“I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could say much
on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can
assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say
more, but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted——”
He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They
were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all
its furniture, were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything would
have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all
as his own future property. The dinner, too, in its turn, was highly admired; and he
begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellence of its cookery was owing. But
here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him, with some asperity, that they
were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the
kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared
herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologize for about a quarter of an hour.

CHAPTER XIV
URING dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were
withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and
therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing
that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s attention to
his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet
could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated
him to more than usual solemnity of manner; and with a most important aspect he
protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank—
such affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced from Lady Catherine.
She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the discourses which he had already
had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,
and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the
evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people, he knew, but he had never
seen anything but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any
other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or two to visit his
relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could,
provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble
parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making, and
had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself,—some shelves in the closets upstairs.
“That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet, “and I dare say she is
a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her.
Does she live near you, sir?”

“The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from
Rosings Park, her Ladyship’s residence.”
“I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?”
“She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property.”
“Ah,” cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than many girls.
And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?”
“She is a most charming young lady, indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that, in
point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because
there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is
unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in
many accomplishments which she could not otherwise have failed of, as I am informed
by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is
perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little
phaeton and ponies.”
“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court.”
“Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that
means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British Court of its
brightest ornament. Her Ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine
that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are
always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her
charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess; and that the most elevated rank, instead
of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These are the kind of little things
which please her Ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself
peculiarly bound to pay.”
“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet; “and it is happy for you that you possess
the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed
from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”
“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time; and though I sometimes amuse
myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted
to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.”
Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had
hoped; and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time
the most resolute composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at
Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure.
By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his
guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him

“Protested
that he never read novels” H.T Feb 94

to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on
beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating library) he started back,
and, begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia
exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose “Fordyce’s
Sermons.” Lydia gaped as he opened the volume; and before he had, with very
monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with,—
“Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard? and if
he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall
walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes
back from town.”
Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much
offended, laid aside his book, and said,—
“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious
stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for certainly there
can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my
young cousin.”
Then, turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr.
Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to
their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologized most civilly for
Lydia’s interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his
book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and
should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr.
Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.

CHAPTER XV.
R. COLLINS was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been
but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having
been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though
he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary
terms without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which
his father had brought him up had given him originally great humility of manner; but it
was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in
retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate
chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford
was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as
his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a
clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and
obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.
Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in
seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to
choose one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were
represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of atonement—for
inheriting their father’s estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and
suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own part.
His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet’s lovely face confirmed his views,
and established all his strictest notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first
evening she was his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in
a quarter of an hour’s tête-à-tête with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation
beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes,
that a mistress for it might be found at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very
complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had

fixed on. “As to her younger daughters, she could not take upon her to say—she could
not positively answer—but she did not know of any prepossession;—her eldest daughter
she must just mention—she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon
engaged.”
Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth—and it was soon done—done
while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and
beauty, succeeded her of course.
Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have two daughters
married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of the day before, was now high
in her good graces.
Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten: every sister except Mary
agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet,
who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for thither Mr.
Collins had followed him after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally
engaged with one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet,
with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings discomposed Mr.
Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and
though prepared, as he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room
in the house, he was used to be free from them there: his civility, therefore, was most
prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being
in fact much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely well pleased to close
his large book, and go.
In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his cousins, their time
passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of the younger ones was then no longer to
be gained by him. Their eyes were immediately wandering up the street in quest of the
officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet, indeed, or a really new muslin in a
shop window, could recall them.
But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had
never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with an officer on the
other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from
London Lydia came to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the
stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible
to find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of wanting something in an
opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement, when the two gentlemen,
turning back, had reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and
entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him
the day before from town, and, he was happy to say, had accepted a commission in their
corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to
make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour: he had all the
best parts of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The
introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a
readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were
still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their

notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the
ladies of the group the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual
civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object. He
was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy
corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on
Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger; and Elizabeth
happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all
astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour, one looked white, the
other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr.
Darcy just deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to
imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.
In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what passed,
took leave and rode on with his friend.
Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr.
Philips’s house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties
that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs. Philips’s throwing up the parlour
window, and loudly seconding the invitation.
Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from their recent
absence, were particularly welcome; and she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their
sudden return home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have
known nothing about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones’s shopboy in the street,
who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield, because
the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed towards Mr. Collins by
Jane’s introduction of him. She received him with her very best politeness, which he
returned with as much more, apologizing for his intrusion, without any previous
acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself, however, might be
justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs.
Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one
stranger was soon put an end to by exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom,
however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had
brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant’s commission in the ——
shire. She had been watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the
street,—and had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued
the occupation; but unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the
officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable
fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the next day, and their aunt
promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if
the family from Longbourn would come in the evening. This was agreed to; and Mrs.
Philips protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery tickets,
and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such delights was very cheering,
and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr. Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the
room, and was assured, with unwearying civility, that they were perfectly needless.

As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass between the
two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or both, had they appeared
to be wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister.
Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs. Philips’s
manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he
had never seen a more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the utmost
civility, but had even pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening,
although utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be attributed to
his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much attention in the whole
course of his life.

CHAPTER XVI.
S no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with their aunt, and all Mr.
Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit
were most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable

hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered
the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle’s invitation,
and was then in the house.
When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.
Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much
struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he might almost have
supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison that
did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him
what Rosings was, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the description
of only one of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that the chimney-piece alone
had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the force of the compliment, and would hardly
have resented a comparison with the housekeeper’s room.
In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion, with
occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the improvements it was
receiving, he was happily employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in
Mrs. Philips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with
what she heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as
she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had nothing to do
but to wish for an instrument, and examine their own indifferent imitations of china on
the mantel-piece, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however.
The gentlemen did approach: and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth
felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with the
smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire were in general
a very creditable, gentlemanlike set and the best of them were of the present party; but
Mr, Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as they
were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who followed
them into the room.

“The officers of the ——shire”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was
turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the
agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on
its being a wet night, and on the probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the
commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of
the speaker.
With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr.
Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing;
but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness,
most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.
When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her, in return, by
sitting down to whist.
“I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be glad to improve myself;
for in my situation of life——” Mrs. Philips was very thankful for his compliance, but
could not wait for his reason.
Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the
other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia’s
engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise
extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too
eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for anyone in
particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore
at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she
chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with
Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was
unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far
Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating
manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.
“About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added,
“he is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.”
“Yes,” replied Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per
annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain
information on that head than myself—for I have been connected with his family, in a
particular manner, from my infancy.”
Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you
probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much
acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”
“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth, warmly. “I have spent four days in
the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable.”

“I have no right to give my opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or
otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a
fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him
would in general astonish—and, perhaps, you would not express it quite so strongly
anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.”
“Upon my word I say no more here than I might say in any house in the
neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is
disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”
“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short interruption, “that he or
that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with him I believe it does
not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by
his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”
“I should take him, even on my slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man.”
Wickham only shook his head.
“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is likely to be in
this country much longer.”
“I do not at all know; but I heard nothing of his going away when I was at
Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ——shire will not be affected by his being
in the neighbourhood.”
“Oh no—it is not for me to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing
me he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him,
but I have no reason for avoiding him but what I might proclaim to all the world—a
sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father,
Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the
truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being
grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than
his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.”
Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but
the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.
Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood,
the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the
latter, especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry.
“It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added, “which was my
chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I know it to be a most respectable, agreeable
corps; and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of their present quarters,
and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them.
Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will
not bear solitude. I must have employment and society. A military life is not what I was
intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church ought to have
been my profession—I was brought up for the church; and I should at this time have been

in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of
just now.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in
his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his
kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the
living fell, it was given elsewhere.”
“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could that be? How could his will be
disregarded? Why did not you seek legal redress?”
“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope
from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to
doubt it—or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had
forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short, anything or nothing.
Certain it is that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to
hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse
myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm unguarded
temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too
freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men,
and that he hates me.”
“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”
“Some time or other he will be—but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I
can never defy or expose him.”
Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he
expressed them.
“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? what can have
induced him to behave so cruelly?”
“A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot but attribute in
some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have
borne with me better; but his father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I
believe, very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which
we stood—the sort of preference which was often given me.”
“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never liked him, I had not
thought so very ill of him—I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in
general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice,
such inhumanity as this!”
After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I do remember his boasting
one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an
unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful.”
“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “I can hardly be just to
him.”

Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, “To treat in such a
manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his father!” She could have added, “A
young man, too, like you, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable.”
But she contented herself with—“And one, too, who had probably been his own
companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest
manner.”
“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest part of our
youth was passed together: inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements,
objects of the same parental care. My father began life in the profession which your
uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to; but he gave up everything to be of
use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property.
He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr.
Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father’s
active superintendence; and when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave
him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much
a debt of gratitude to him as of affection to myself.”
“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that the very pride of
this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you. If from no better motive, that he should not
have been too proud to be dishonest,—for dishonesty I must call it.”
“It is wonderful,” replied Wickham; “for almost all his actions may be traced to pride;
and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any
other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me there were
stronger impulses even than pride.”
“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”
“Yes; it has often led him to be liberal and generous; to give his money freely, to
display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and filial
pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to
disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the
Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also brotherly pride, which, with some
brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you
will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers.”
“What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?”
He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a
Darcy; but she is too much like her brother,—very, very proud. As a child, she was
affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours
to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or
sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father’s death her home has
been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education.”
After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help
reverting once more to the first, and saying,—
“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley. How can Mr. Bingley, who seems
good-humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a

man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?”
“Not at all.”
“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy
is.”
“Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want
abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those
who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the
less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just,
sincere, rational, honourable, and, perhaps, agreeable,—allowing something for fortune
and figure.”
The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other
table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips. The
usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he
had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he
assured her, with much earnest gravity, that it was not of the least importance; that he
considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy.
“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a card table they
must take their chance of these things,—and happily I am not in such circumstances as to
make five shillings any object. There are, undoubtedly, many who could not say the
same; but, thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity
of regarding little matters.”
Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few
moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relations were very intimately
acquainted with the family of De Bourgh.
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him a living. I hardly
know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known
her long.”
“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were
sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.”
“No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s connections. I never
heard of her existence till the day before yesterday.”
“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that
she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”
This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain
indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her
praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another.
“Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but,
from some particulars that he has related of her Ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads
him; and that, in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.”
“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I have not seen her for
many years; but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were

dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever;
but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from
her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chooses that
everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the first class.”
Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued
talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest
of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There could be no conversation in
the noise of Mrs. Philips’s supper party, but his manners recommended him to everybody.
Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went
away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of
what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention
his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked
incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won; and Mr.
Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the
least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly
fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before
the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.

delighted to see their dear friend again.

CHAPTER XVII.
LIZABETH related to Jane, the next day, what had passed between Mr.
Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern: she
knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.
Bingley’s regard; and yet it was not in her nature to question the veracity of
a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The possibility of his
having really endured such unkindness was enough to interest all her tender

feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be done but to think well of them both, to
defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever
could not be otherwise explained.
“They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of
which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the
other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which
may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.”
“Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in behalf of the
interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do clear them, too,
or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.”
“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My
dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be
treating his father’s favourite in such a manner,—one whom his father had promised to
provide for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value
for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively
deceived in him? Oh no.”
“I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on than that Mr.
Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts,
everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it.
Besides, there was truth in his looks.”
“It is difficult, indeed—it is distressing. One does not know what to think.”
“I beg your pardon;—one knows exactly what to think.”
But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,—that Mr. Bingley, if he had
been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public.
The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this conversation
passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr.
Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long expected ball at
Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to
see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what
she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid
little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth,
and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with
an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape
from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities.
The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the
family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter,
and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself,
instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of
her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure
of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in
Mr. Darcy’s look and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia
depended less on any single event, or any particular person; for though they each, like

Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the
only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary
could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it.
“While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is enough. I think it is no
sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I
profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as
desirable for everybody.”
Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she did not often speak
unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking him whether he intended to
accept Mr. Bingley’s invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in
the evening’s amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no
scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke, either from the
Archbishop or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.
“I am by no means of opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a ball of this kind, given
by a young man of character, to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am
so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands
of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of
soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially; a preference which I
trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.”
Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being engaged by
Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins instead!—her liveliness had
been never worse timed. There was no help for it, however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness
and her own was perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins’s proposal accepted
with as good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his gallantry, from
the idea it suggested of something more. It now first struck her, that she was selected
from among her sisters as worthy of being the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of
assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. The
idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing civilities towards herself,
and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more
astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before her
mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage was exceedingly
agreeable to her. Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well aware
that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never
make the offer, and, till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.
If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss
Bennets would have been in a pitiable state at this time; for, from the day of the
invitation to the day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented their
walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after; the very
shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some
trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of her
acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday could have
made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.

CHAPTER XVIII.
ILL Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain
for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of
his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him
had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not
unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care,
and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained
unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of
the evening. But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted,
for Mr. Darcy’s pleasure, in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though this was
not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Mr.
Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been

obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with
a significant smile,—
“I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not
wished to avoid a certain gentleman here.”
This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by Elizabeth; and,
as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her
first surmise had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former was so
sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable
civility to the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.
Attention, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was resolved
against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away with a degree of ill-humour
which she could not wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind
partiality provoked her.
But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect of her own
was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her spirits; and, having told all
her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon able to
make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her
particular notice. The two first dances, however, brought a return of distress: they were
dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn, apologizing instead of
attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it, gave her all the shame and
misery which a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her
release from him was ecstasy.
She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of Wickham, and
of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances were over, she returned to
Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly
addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took her so much by surprise in his application for her
hand, that, without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again
immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of mind: Charlotte
tried to console her.
“I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”
“Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man
agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil.”
When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand,
Charlotte could not help cautioning her, in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her
fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man often times his
consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the
dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and
reading in her neighbours’ looks their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for
some time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to
last through the two dances, and, at first, was resolved not to break it; till suddenly
fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she

made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a
pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time, with—
“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and you
ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said.
“Very well; that reply will do for the present. Perhaps, by-and-by, I may observe that
private balls are much pleasanter than public ones; but now we may be silent.”
“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”
“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely
silent for half an hour together; and yet, for the advantage of some, conversation ought to
be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”
“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that
you are gratifying mine?”
“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn
of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless
we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”
“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” said he.
“How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait,
undoubtedly.”
“I must not decide on my own performance.”
He made no answer; and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance,
when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She
answered in the affirmative; and, unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met
us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”
The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his features, but he
said not a word; and Elizabeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not
go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said,—
“Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may insure his making friends;
whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”
“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” replied Elizabeth, with
emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”
Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At that moment
Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass through the set to the other
side of the room; but, on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped, with a bow of superior
courtesy, to compliment him on his dancing and his partner.
“I have been most highly gratified, indeed, my dear sir; such very superior dancing is
not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however,
that your fair partner does not disgrace you: and that I must hope to have this pleasure
often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza (glancing at
her sister and Bingley), shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal

to Mr. Darcy;—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you
from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding
me.”

“Such very superior dancing is not
often seen.”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir William’s allusion
to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his eyes were directed, with a very serious
expression, towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself,
however, shortly, he turned to his partner, and said,—
“Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.”
“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted any
two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three
subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
“What think you of books?” said he, smiling.
“Books—oh no!—I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”
“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of
subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
“No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something
else.”
“The present always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said he, with a look of
doubt.
“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said; for her thoughts had
wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming,
“I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave;—that your
resentment, once created, was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its
being created?”
“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.
“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
“I hope not.”
“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of
judging properly at first.”
“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
“Merely to the illustration of your character,” said she, endeavouring to shake off her
gravity. “I am trying to make it out.”
“And what is your success?”
She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as
puzzle me exceedingly.”
“I can readily believe,” answered he, gravely, “that reports may vary greatly with
respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at
the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no
credit on either.”
“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.”

“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied. She said no
more, and they went down the other dance and parted in silence; on each side
dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree; for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerably
powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger
against another.
They had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her, and, with an
expression of civil disdain, thus accosted her,—
“So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham? Your sister has
been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions; and I find that the
young man forgot to tell you, among his other communications, that he was the son of
old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy’s steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a
friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for, as to Mr. Darcy’s using
him ill, it is perfectly false: for, on the contrary, he has been always remarkably kind to
him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not
know the particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame; that
he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned; and that though my brother thought
he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was excessively
glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all is
a most insolent thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,
Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but really, considering his descent,
one could not expect much better.”
“His guilt and his descent appear, by your account, to be the same,” said Elizabeth,
angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr.
Darcy’s steward, and of that, I can assure you, he informed me himself.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer. “Excuse my
interference; it was kindly meant.”
“Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much mistaken if you expect to
influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful
ignorance and the malice of Mr. Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had
undertaken to make inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile
of such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how
well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth instantly read her
feelings; and, at that moment, solicitude for Wickham, resentment against his enemies,
and everything else, gave way before the hope of Jane’s being in the fairest way for
happiness.
“I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her sister’s,
“what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly
engaged to think of any third person, in which case you may be sure of my pardon.”
“No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing satisfactory to tell
you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the
circumstances which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good
conduct, the probity and honour, of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that Mr.

Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I
am sorry to say that by his account, as well as his sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no means a
respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose
Mr. Darcy’s regard.”
“Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself.”
“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”
“This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am perfectly satisfied.
But what does he say of the living?”
“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard them from Mr.
Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to him conditionally only.”
“I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly, “but you must
excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr. Bingley’s defence of his friend
was a very able one, I dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the
story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture still to think of both
gentlemen as I did before.”
She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on which there
could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy though
modest hopes which Jane entertained of Bingley’s regard, and said all in her power to
heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth
withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she
had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told her with great
exultation, that he had just been so fortunate as to make a most important discovery.
“I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there is now in the room a
near relation to my patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning
to the young lady who does the honours of this house the names of his cousin Miss De
Bourgh, and of her mother, Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur!
Who would have thought of my meeting with—perhaps—a nephew of Lady Catherine de
Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to
pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will excuse my not
having done it before. My total ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.”
“You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?”
“Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to
be Lady Catherine’s nephew. It will be in my power to assure him that her Ladyship was
quite well yesterday se’nnight.”
Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme; assuring him that Mr. Darcy
would consider his addressing him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather
than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should be any
notice on either side, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined
air of following his own inclination, and when she ceased speaking, replied thus,—
“My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world of your excellent
judgment in all matters within the scope of your understanding, but permit me to say that

there must be a wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the
laity and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that I consider the
clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—
provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must,
therefore, allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which lead
me to perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by
your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though in the case
before us I consider myself more fitted by education and habitual study to decide on what
is right than a young lady like yourself;” and with a low bow he left her to attack Mr.
Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at
being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow,
and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the
motion of his lips the words “apology,” “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It
vexed her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with
unrestrained wonder; and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him to speak, replied with an
air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again,
and Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his second
speech; and at the end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way: Mr.
Collins then returned to Elizabeth.
“I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied with my reception. Mr.
Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered me with the utmost civility,
and even paid me the compliment of saying, that he was so well convinced of Lady
Catherine’s discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It
was really a very handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.”
As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned her attention
almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections which
her observations gave birth to made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in
idea settled in that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could
bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to like
Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly saw were bent the same way,
and she determined not to venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat
down to supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed
them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was
talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but of her
expectation that Jane would be soon married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject,
and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the
match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles
from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to
think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the
connection as much as she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her
younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other
rich men; and, lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be able to consign her single
daughters to the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company

more than she liked. It was necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure,
because on such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. Bennet
to find comfort in staying at home at any period of her life. She concluded with many
good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally fortunate, though evidently and
triumphantly believing there was no chance of it.
In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother’s words, or
persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for to her inexpressible
vexation she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat
opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.
“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him
no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear.”
“For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be to you to offend
Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing.”
Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would talk of her
views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and
vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every
glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her
mother, she was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression
of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity.
At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who had been
long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was
left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long
was the interval of tranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she
had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the
company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties did she endeavour to prevent
such a proof of complaisance,—but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an
opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth’s eyes
were fixed on her, with most painful sensations; and she watched her progress through
the several stanzas with an impatience which was very ill rewarded at their close; for
Mary, on receiving amongst the thanks of the table the hint of a hope that she might be
prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another. Mary’s
powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner
affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane to see how she bore it; but Jane
was very composedly talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them
making signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,
impenetrably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his interference, lest Mary should
be singing all night. He took the hint, and, when Mary had finished her second song, said
aloud,—
“That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other
young ladies have time to exhibit.”
Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and Elizabeth,
sorry for her, and sorry for her father’s speech, was afraid her anxiety had done no good.

Others of the party were now applied to.
“If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great
pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air; for I consider music as a very
innocent diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not
mean, however, to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to
music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a parish has
much to do. In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tithes as may be
beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and
the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and
improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as comfortable
as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and
conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those to whom he owes his
preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who
should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the
family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken
so loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared—many smiled; but no one looked
more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins
for having spoken so sensibly, and observed, in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was
a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.
To Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an agreement to expose
themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would have been impossible for
them to play their parts with more spirit, or finer success; and happy did she think it for
Bingley and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his
feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he must have
witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an opportunity
of ridiculing her relations was bad enough; and she could not determine whether the
silent contempt of the gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more
intolerable.
The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by Mr. Collins,
who continued most perseveringly by her side; and though he could not prevail with her
to dance with him again, put it out of her power to dance with others. In vain did she
entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offered to introduce him to any young
lady in the room. He assured her that, as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;
that his chief object was, by delicate attentions, to recommend himself to her; and that he
should therefore make a point of remaining close to her the whole evening. There was no
arguing upon such a project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who
often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s conversation to herself.
She was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy’s further notice: though often
standing within a very short distance of her, quite disengaged, he never came near
enough to speak. She felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr.
Wickham, and rejoiced in it.
The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart; and by a manœuvre
of Mrs. Bennet had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else

was gone, which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by some of
the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of
fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed
every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and, by so doing, threw a languor over the
whole party, which was very little relieved by the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was
complimenting Mr. Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the
hospitality and politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said
nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane
were standing together a little detached from the rest, and talked only to each other.
Elizabeth preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even
Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord,
how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.
When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil in her
hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn; and addressed herself particularly to
Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he would make them, by eating a family dinner
with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all
grateful pleasure; and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on
her after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next day for a short
time.
Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house under the delightful
persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of settlements, new carriages,
and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in
the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins
she thought with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.
Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the match
were quite good enough for her, the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and
Netherfield.

“to assure you in the most animated language.”

CHAPTER XIX.

HE next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his
declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as his
leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having no
feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the moment,
he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the observances which he
supposed a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of
the younger girls together, soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,
—
“May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, when I
solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the course of this morning?”
Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs. Bennet instantly
answered,—
“Oh dear! Yes, certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have
no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you upstairs.” And gathering her work together, she
was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out,—
“Dear ma’am, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse me. He can
have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am going away myself.”
“No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you will stay where you are.” And upon Elizabeth’s
seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to escape, she added, “Lizzy, I
insist upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins.”
Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction; and a moment’s consideration
making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it over as soon and as quietly as
possible, she sat down again, and tried to conceal, by incessant employment, the feelings
which were divided between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off,
and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began,—
“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from doing you any
disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my
eyes had there not been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have
your respected mother’s permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of
my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my attentions
have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house I singled you
out as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on
this subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and,
moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly
did.”
The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away with by his
feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not use the short pause he
allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and he continued,—
“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in
easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly,
that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and, thirdly, which perhaps
I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of

the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she
condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject; and it was but the
very Saturday night before I left Hunsford,—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs.
Jenkinson was arranging Miss De Bourgh’s footstool,—that she said, ‘Mr. Collins, you
must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman
for my sake, and for your own; let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up
high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a
woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the
way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady
Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my power to offer. You will
find her manners beyond anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must
be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect which her
rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general intention in favour of matrimony;
it remains to be told why my views were directed to Longbourn instead of my own
neighbourhood, where I assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact
is, that being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured father (who,
however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself without resolving to
choose a wife from among his daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as
possible when the melancholy event takes place—which, however, as I have already said,
may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter
myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing remains for me but to assure
you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am
perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am
well aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the 4 per
cents., which will not be yours till after your mother’s decease, is all that you may ever
be entitled to. On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent: and you may assure
yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.”
It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
“You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do
it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I
am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do
otherwise than decline them.”
“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the hand, “that it
is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to
accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a
second or even a third time. I am, therefore, by no means discouraged by what you have
just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.”
“Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is rather an extraordinary one after
my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young
ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked
a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make me happy, and I
am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make you so. Nay, were

your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every
respect ill qualified for the situation.”
“Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins, very gravely
—“but I cannot imagine that her Ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may
be certain that when I have the honour of seeing her again I shall speak in the highest
terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable qualifications.”
“Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must give me leave to
judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of believing what I say. I wish you very
happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being
otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings
with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls,
without any self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.”
And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr. Collins thus
addressed her,—
“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I shall hope to
receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me; though I am far from
accusing you of cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established custom of your
sex to reject a man on the first application, and, perhaps, you have even now said as
much to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female
character.”
“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth, with some warmth, “you puzzle me
exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of encouragement,
I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as may convince you of its being
one.”
“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my
addresses are merely words of course. My reasons for believing it are briefly these:—It
does not appear to me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance, or that the
establishment I can offer would be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life,
my connections with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are
circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further consideration that,
in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of
marriage may ever be made you. Your portion is unhappily so small, that it will in all
likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must,
therefore, conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to
attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual
practice of elegant females.”
“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind of elegance
which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of
being believed sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in
your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect
forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female intending to
plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the truth from her heart.”

“You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward gallantry; “and I am
persuaded that, when sanctioned by the express authority of both your excellent parents,
my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.”
To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no reply, and
immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, that if he persisted in considering her
repeated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative
might be uttered in such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least
could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.

CHAPTER XX.
R. COLLINS was not left long to the silent contemplation of his successful
love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the
end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick
step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and
congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of
their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these felicitations with equal
pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of
which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal which his cousin
had steadfastly given him would naturally flow from her bashful modesty and the
genuine delicacy of her character.
This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet: she would have been glad to be
equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his
proposals, but she dared not believe it, and could not help saying so.
“But depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall be brought to reason. I
will speak to her about it myself directly. She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does
not know her own interest; but I will make her know it.”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but if she is really
headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife
to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If,
therefore, she actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her
into accepting me, because, if liable to such defects of temper, she could not contribute
much to my felicity.”
“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. “Lizzy is only
headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as good-natured a girl as
ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with her, I am
sure.”
She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her husband, called
out, as she entered the library,—
“Oh, Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must
come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him; and if you
do not make haste he will change his mind and not have her.”
Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face
with a calm unconcern, which was not in the least altered by her communication.
“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had finished her
speech. “Of what are you talking?”
“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr.
Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.”
“And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems a hopeless business.”
“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him.”
“Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.”
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library.
“Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have sent for you on an affair
of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it
true?”
Elizabeth replied that it was.
“Very well—and this offer of marriage you have refused?”
“I have, sir.”
“Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is
it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”
“Yes, or I will never see her again.”
“An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a
stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry
Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do.”
Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; but Mrs.
Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished,
was excessively disappointed.

“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me to insist
upon her marrying him.”
“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request. First, that you
will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and, secondly, of
my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.”
Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Bennet give
up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns.
She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest, but Jane, with all possible mildness,
declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and sometimes with
playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her
determination never did.
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. He thought
too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin could refuse him; and
though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite
imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother’s reproach prevented his
feeling any regret.
While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with
them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper,
“I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened this
morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.”

“they entered the breakfast room”

Charlotte had hardly time to answer before they were joined by Kitty, who came to
tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs.

Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her
compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of
her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added, in a melancholy tone; “for nobody
is on my side, nobody takes part with me; I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor
nerves.”
Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
“Ay, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned as may be,
and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she can have her own way.
But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer
of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and I am sure I do not know
who is to maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep you—and so
I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library, you know,
that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have
no pleasure in talking to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in
talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great
inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do
not complain are never pitied.”
Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason
with or soothe her would only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without
interruption from any of them till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an
air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,—
“Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let Mr. Collins
and me have a little conversation together.”
Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood
her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility
of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were very minute, and
then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not
to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected conversation:—
“Oh, Mr. Collins!”
“My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this point. Far be it from
me,” he presently continued, in a voice that marked his displeasure, “to resent the
behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all: the
peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I have been, in early
preferment; and, I trust, I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my
positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often
observed, that resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose
somewhat of its value in our estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing
any disrespect to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to
your daughter’s favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of
requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be
objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your daughter’s lips instead of your
own; but we are all liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair.

My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due consideration
for the advantage of all your family; and if my manner has been at all reprehensible, I
here beg leave to apologize.”

CHAPTER XXI.
HE discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now nearly at an end, and Elizabeth
had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily attending it,
and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother. As for the
gentleman himself, his feelings were chiefly expressed, not by
embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of manner and
resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her; and the assiduous attentions which he
had been so sensible of himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas,

whose civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to
her friend.
The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill humour or ill health. Mr.
Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment
might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was
always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay.
After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton, to inquire if Mr. Wickham were
returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on
their entering the town, and attended them to their aunt’s, where his regret and vexation
and the concern of everybody were well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he
voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence had been self-imposed.
“I found,” said he, “as the time drew near, that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy;—that
to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be
more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”
She highly approved his forbearance; and they had leisure for a full discussion of it,
and for all the commendations which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham
and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he
particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double advantage: she felt all
the compliment it offered to herself; and it was most acceptable as an occasion of
introducing him to her father and mother.

“Walked back with them”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from
Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant,
little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw
her sister’s countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some
particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon; and putting the letter away, tried to
join, with her usual cheerfulness, in the general conversation: but Elizabeth felt an
anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner
had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her
upstairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane, taking out her letter, said, “This is
from Caroline Bingley: what it contains has surprised me a good deal. The whole party
have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any
intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says.”
She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their
having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine
that day in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words:

—“ ‘I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire except your society,
my dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that
delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of
separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for
that.’ ” To these high-flown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of
distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it
really to lament: it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would
prevent Mr. Bingley’s being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was persuaded
that Jane must soon cease to regard it in the enjoyment of his.
“It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should not be able to see your
friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future
happiness, to which Miss Bingley looks forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware,
and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet
greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by them.”
“Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this
winter. I will read it to you.
“ ‘When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him
to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we are certain it cannot be so,
and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to
leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged
to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are already
there for the winter: I wish I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of
making one in the crowd, but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in
Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that
your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of whom
we shall deprive you.’
“It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more this winter.”
“It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he should.”
“Why will you think so? It must be his own doing; he is his own master. But you do
not know all. I will read you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no
reserves from you. ‘Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and to confess the truth, we
are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her
equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa
and myself is heightened into something still more interesting from the hope we dare to
entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned
to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country without confiding
them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly
already; he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate
footing; her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister’s partiality
is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s
heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am
I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the

happiness of so many?’ What think you of this sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane, as
she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither
expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s
indifference; and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him she means (most
kindly!) to put me on my guard. Can there be any other opinion on the subject?”
“Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?”
“Most willingly.”
“You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with
you and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the hope of keeping
him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you.”
Jane shook her head.
“Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you together can
doubt his affection; Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot: she is not such a simpleton. Could
she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her
wedding clothes. But the case is this:—we are not rich enough or grand enough for them;
and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when
there has been one inter-marriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in
which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed if Miss de
Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that,
because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the
smallest degree less sensible of your merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday;
or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead of being in love with you, he
is very much in love with her friend.”
“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your representation of all this
might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of
wilfully deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived
herself.”
“That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take
comfort in mine: believe her to be deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty
by her, and must fret no longer.”
“But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man
whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?”
“You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon mature deliberation,
you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the
happiness of being his wife, I advise you, by all means, to refuse him.”
“How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling; “you must know, that, though I
should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate.”
“I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation
with much compassion.”
“But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand
things may arise in six months.”

The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It
appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline’s interested wishes; and she could not
for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could
influence a young man so totally independent of everyone.
She represented to her sister, as forcibly as possible, what she felt on the subject, and
had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane’s temper was not desponding; and
she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame
the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield, and answer every wish of her heart.
They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without
being alarmed on the score of the gentleman’s conduct; but even this partial
communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly
unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away just as they were all getting so intimate
together. After lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation of thinking
that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again, and soon dining at Longbourn; and the
conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that, though he had been invited only
to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses.

CHAPTER XXII.
HE Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases; and again, during the
chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth
took an opportunity of thanking her. “It keeps him in good humour,” said
she, “and I am more obliged to you than I can express.”
Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it
amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable; but
Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of:—its object
was nothing less than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by
engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances were so
favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost sure of success if
he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did injustice to the fire
and independence of his character; for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the
next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her
feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that, if they
saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to
have the attempt known till its success could be known likewise; for, though feeling
almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was
comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception, however, was
of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he

walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But
little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.
In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow, everything was settled
between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly
entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such
a solicitation must be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his
happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship
from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who
accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not
how soon that establishment were gained.
Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was
bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins’s present circumstances made it a most
eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his
prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate,
with more interest than the matter had ever

“So much love and eloquence”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William
gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of
the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should
make their appearance at St. James’s. The whole family in short were properly
overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of coming out a year or
two sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from
their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably
composed. She had gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections
were in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor
agreeable: his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But
still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony,
marriage had always been her object: it was the only honourable provision for well-
educated young women of small fortune, and, however uncertain of giving happiness,
must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now
obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt
all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the
surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond
that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and
though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a
disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself; and therefore charged
Mr. Collins, when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had
passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully
given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long
absence burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some
ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he
was longing to publish his prosperous love.
As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family,
the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and
Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to
see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit
them.
“My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it
is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail
myself of it as soon as possible.”
They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so
speedy a return, immediately said,—
“But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here, my good sir?
You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of offending your patroness.”

“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to you for this
friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without
her Ladyship’s concurrence.”
“You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk anything rather than her displeasure;
and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think
exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that we shall take no
offence.”
“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate
attention; and, depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for
this as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As
for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary,
I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my
cousin Elizabeth.”
With proper civilities, the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to
find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he
thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been
prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others:
there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her; and though by no means
so clever as herself, she thought that, if encouraged to read and improve himself by
such an example as hers, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the
following morning every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon
after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day
before.
The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with her friend had once
occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two: but that Charlotte could encourage
him seemed almost as far from possibility as that she could encourage him herself; and
her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of
decorum, and she could not help crying out,—
“Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte, impossible!”
The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her story
gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as
it was no more than she expected, she soon regained her composure, and calmly
replied,—
“Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible that Mr.
Collins should be able to procure any woman’s good opinion, because he was not so
happy as to succeed with you?”
But Elizabeth had now recollected herself; and, making a strong effort for it, was
able to assure her, with tolerable firmness, that the prospect of their relationship was
highly grateful to her, and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.
“I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte; “you must be surprised, very much
surprised, so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But when you have had

time to think it all over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not
romantic, you know. I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and, considering Mr.
Collins’s character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance
of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage
state.”
Elizabeth quietly answered “undoubtedly;” and, after an awkward pause, they
returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much longer; and Elizabeth
was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time before she became at
all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins’s
making two offers of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his
being now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was
not exactly like her own; but she could not have supposed it possible that, when called
into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage.
Charlotte, the wife of Mr. Collins, was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of
a friend disgracing herself, and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing
conviction that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had
chosen.

“Protested he must be entirely mistaken.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
LIZABETH was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what
she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorized to mention it,
when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to
announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,
and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the
houses, he unfolded the matter,—to an audience not merely wondering,
but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness, protested he

must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil,
boisterously exclaimed,—
“Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know that Mr.
Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”
Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne without anger
such treatment: but Sir William’s good-breeding carried him through it all; and though
he begged leave to be positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all their
impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.
Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant a situation,
now put herself forward to confirm his account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of
it from Charlotte herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her
mother and sisters, by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which
she was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the happiness
that might be expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins, and the
convenient distance of Hunsford from London.
Mrs. Bennet was, in fact, too much overpowered to say a great deal while Sir
William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings found a rapid vent.
In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she
was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would
never be happy together; and, fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two
inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the
real cause of all the mischief; and the other, that she herself had been barbarously used
by them all; and on these two points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day.
Nothing could console and nothing appease her. Nor did that day wear out her
resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without scolding her: a
month passed away before she could speak to Sir William or Lady Lucas without
being rude; and many months were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter.
Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such as he
did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he
said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably
sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his daughter!
Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match: but she said less of her
astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness; nor could Elizabeth
persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and Lydia were far from envying Miss
Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than
as a piece of news to spread at Meryton.
Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on Mrs.
Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she called at Longbourn
rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks
and ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness away.

Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them mutually
silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever
subsist between them again. Her disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with
fonder regard to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion
could never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as
Bingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of his return.
Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting the days till
she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr.
Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the solemnity
of gratitude which a twelve-month’s abode in the family might have prompted. After
discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many
rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of their
amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the view of
enjoying her society that he had been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing
him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight;
for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to
take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument
with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the happiest of men.
Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs.
Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. It
was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was
also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the
house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the most
disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only
to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence.
Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after day passed
away without bringing any other tidings of him than the report which shortly prevailed
in Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which
highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most
scandalous falsehood.
Even Elizabeth began to fear—not that Bingley was indifferent—but that his
sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she was to admit an
idea so destructive to Jane’s happiness, and so dishonourable to the stability of her
lover, she could not prevent its frequently recurring. The united efforts of his two
unfeeling sisters, and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss
Darcy and the amusements of London, might be too much, she feared, for the strength
of his attachment.
As for Jane, her anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more painful than
Elizabeth’s: but whatever she felt she was desirous of concealing; and between herself
and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy
restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley,

express her impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not
come back she should think herself very ill-used. It needed all Jane’s steady mildness
to bear these attacks with tolerable tranquillity.
Mr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight, but his reception at
Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his first introduction. He was
too happy, however, to need much attention; and, luckily for the others, the business of
love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day
was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in
time to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.

“Whenever she spoke in a low voice”

Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of anything
concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour, and wherever she went
she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her
successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte
came to see them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and
whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were
talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of
the house as soon as Mr. Bennet was dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her
husband.
“Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that Charlotte Lucas should
ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to make way for her, and live to
see her take my place in it!”
“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things.
Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.”
This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet; and, therefore, instead of making any
answer, she went on as before.
“I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was not for the
entail, I should not mind it.”
“What should not you mind?”
“I should not mind anything at all.”
“Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such insensibility.”
“I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How anyone
could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one’s own daughters I cannot
understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins, too! Why should he have it more than
anybody else?”
“I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet.

CHAPTER XXIV.
ISS BINGLEY’S letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first
sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for
the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret at not having had time
to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the
country.
Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of the letter,
she found little, except the professed affection of the writer, that could give her any
comfort. Miss Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again
dwelt on; and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to
predict the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former
letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an inmate of Mr.
Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of the latter with regard to
new furniture.
Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard it in
silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for her sister and
resentment against all others. To Caroline’s assertion of her brother’s being partial to
Miss Darcy, she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more
than she had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she
could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper,
that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his designing friends,
and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to the caprice of their inclinations. Had his

own happiness, however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport
with it in whatever manner he thought best; but her sister’s was involved in it, as she
thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection
would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing else; and
yet, whether Bingley’s regard had really died away, or were suppressed by his friends’
interference; whether he had been aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had
escaped his observation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of him must be
materially affected by the difference, her sister’s situation remained the same, her
peace equally wounded.
A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to Elizabeth;
but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them together, after a longer irritation than usual
about Netherfield and its master, she could not help saying,—
“O that my dear mother had more command over herself! she can have no idea of
the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It
cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said nothing.
“You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have no reason. He
may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance but that is all. I
have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God I
have not that pain. A little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to get the better——”
With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort immediately, that it has
not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to
anyone but myself.”
“My dear Jane,” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your sweetness and
disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to you. I feel as if I had
never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve.”
Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the praise
on her sister’s warm affection.
“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. You wish to think all the world respectable,
and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want to think you perfect, and you set
yourself against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching
on your privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people whom I
really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world the more
am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all
human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of
either merit or sense. I have met with two instances lately: one I will not mention, the
other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it is unaccountable!”
“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin your
happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper.
Consider Mr. Collins’s respectability, and Charlotte’s prudent, steady character.
Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune it is a most eligible

match; and be ready to believe, for everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like
regard and esteem for our cousin.”
“To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else could be
benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that Charlotte had any regard
for him, I should only think worse of her understanding than I now do of her heart. My
dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man: you know
he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries
him cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it is
Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the meaning of
principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is
prudence, and insensibility of danger security for happiness.”
“I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,” replied Jane; “and I
hope you will be convinced of it, by seeing them happy together. But enough of this.
You alluded to something else. You mentioned two instances. I cannot misunderstand
you, but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking that person to blame, and
saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves
intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded
and circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us. Women
fancy admiration means more than it does.”
“And men take care that they should.”
“If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea of there being
so much design in the world as some persons imagine.”
“I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to design,” said
Elizabeth; “but, without scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may
be error and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s
feelings, and want of resolution, will do the business.”
“And do you impute it to either of those?”
“Yes; to the last. But if I go on I shall displease you by saying what I think of
persons you esteem. Stop me, whilst you can.”
“You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”
“Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”
“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can only wish his
happiness; and if he is attached to me no other woman can secure it.”
“Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness:
they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they may wish him to marry a
girl who has all the importance of money, great connections, and pride.”
“Beyond a doubt they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane; “but this
may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have known her much
longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may
be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their brother’s. What

sister would think herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very
objectionable? If they believed him attached to me they would not try to part us; if he
were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make everybody
acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I
am not ashamed of having been mistaken—or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in
comparison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in
the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.”
Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley’s name
was scarcely ever mentioned between them.
Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more; and
though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there
seemed little chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter
endeavoured to convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his attentions to
Jane had been merely the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when
he saw her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at the
time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best comfort was, that
Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he, one day, “your sister
is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be
crossed in love a little now and then. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of
distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear
to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at Meryton to
disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a
pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”
“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect
Jane’s good fortune.”
“True,” said Mr. Bennet; “but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of that kind
may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will always make the most of it.”
Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom which the
late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him
often, and to his other recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The
whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he
had suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and
everybody was pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before
they had known anything of the matter.
Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any
extenuating circumstances in the case unknown to the society of Hertfordshire: her
mild and steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of
mistakes; but by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.

CHAPTER XXV.
FTER a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr.
Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday.
The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his side by
preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason to hope, that
shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that
was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at Longbourn
with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins health and happiness again,
and promised their father another letter of thanks.
On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her brother
and his wife, who came, as usual, to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner
was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as
education. The Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man
who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well-
bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet
and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great favourite
with her Longbourn nieces. Between the two eldest and herself especially, there
subsisted a very particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her in town.
The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business, on her arrival, was to distribute her
presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was done, she had a less active
part to play. It became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate,
and much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister.

Two of her girls had been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing in
it.
“I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got Mr. Bingley if she
could. But, Lizzy! Oh, sister! it is very hard to think that she might have been Mr.
Collins’s wife by this time, had not it been for her own perverseness. He made her an
offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas
will have a daughter married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as much
entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people, indeed, sister. They are all for
what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous
and poorly, to be thwarted so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of
themselves before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the greatest
of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us of long sleeves.”
Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in the course
of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and,
in compassion to her nieces, turned the conversation.
When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. “It seems
likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said she. “I am sorry it went off. But
these things happen so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so
easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and, when accident separates
them, so easily forgets her, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent.”

“Offended two or three young ladies”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

“An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth; “but it will not do for us. We
do not suffer by accident. It does not often happen that the interference of friends will

persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was
violently in love with only a few days before.”
“But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so doubtful, so
indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as often applied to feelings which arise
only from a half hour’s acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how violent
was Mr. Bingley’s love?”
“I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite inattentive to
other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time they met, it was more decided
and remarkable. At his own ball he offended two or three young ladies by not asking
them to dance; and I spoke to him twice myself without receiving an answer. Could
there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?”
“Oh, yes! of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor Jane! I am
sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had
better have happened to you, Lizzy; you would have laughed yourself out of it sooner.
But do you think she would be prevailed on to go back with us? Change of scene
might be of service—and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as
anything.”
Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded of her
sister’s ready acquiescence.
“I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard to this young
man will influence her. We live in so different a part of town, all our connections are
so different, and, as you well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable they
should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her.”
“And that is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his friend, and Mr.
Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a part of London! My dear
aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may, perhaps, have heard of such a place
as Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a month’s ablution enough to cleanse
him from its impurities, were he once to enter it; and, depend upon it, Mr. Bingley
never stirs without him.”
“So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane correspond
with his sister? She will not be able to help calling.”
“She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”
But, in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this point, as well
as the still more interesting one of Bingley’s being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt
a solicitude on the subject which convinced her, on examination, that she did not
consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable,
that his affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his friends successfully
combated by the more natural influence of Jane’s attractions.
Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation with pleasure; and the Bingleys were no
otherwise in her thoughts at the same time than as she hoped, by Caroline’s not living

in the same house with her brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her,
without any danger of seeing him.
The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses, the
Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet
had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did
not once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the
officers always made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one;
and on these occasions Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm
commendation of him, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them, from
what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference of each other was plain
enough to make her a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the
subject before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of
encouraging such an attachment.
To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, unconnected
with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had
spent a considerable time in that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They
had, therefore, many acquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little
there since the death of Darcy’s father, five years before, it was yet in his power to
give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of
procuring.
Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by character
perfectly well. Here, consequently, was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. In
comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute description which Wickham
could give, and in bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor,
she was delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present
Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she tried to remember something of that gentleman’s
reputed disposition, when quite a lad, which might agree with it; and was confident, at
last, that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a
very proud, ill-natured boy.

“Will you come and see me.”

CHAPTER XXVI.
RS. GARDINER’S caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given
on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone: after honestly
telling her what she thought, she thus went on:—
“You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you
are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking openly.

Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself, or endeavour
to involve him, in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very
imprudent. I have nothing to say against him: he is a most interesting young man; and
if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it
is—you must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect
you to use it. Your father would depend on your resolution and good conduct, I am
sure. You must not disappoint your father.”
“My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”
“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”
“Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr.
Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.”
“Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”
“I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham;
no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever
saw—and if he becomes really attached to me—I believe it will be better that he
should not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh, that abominable Mr. Darcy! My father’s
opinion of me does me the greatest honour; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My
father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very
sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see, every day, that
where there is affection young people are seldom withheld, by immediate want of
fortune, from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be
wiser than so many of my fellow-creatures, if I am tempted, or how am I even to know
that it would be wiser to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a
hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company
with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.”
“Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least
you should not remind your mother of inviting him.”
“As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; “very true, it will
be wise in me to refrain from that. But do not imagine that he is always here so often.
It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my
mother’s ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and
upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now I hope you are
satisfied.”
Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth, having thanked her for the
kindness of her hints, they parted,—a wonderful instance of advice being given on
such a point without being resented.
Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the
Gardiners and Jane; but, as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no
great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching; and she
was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an
ill-natured tone, that she “wished they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the

wedding-day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she
rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and reluctant good
wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went
down stairs together, Charlotte said,—
“I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”
“That you certainly shall.”
“And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?”
“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”
“I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to
Hunsford.”
Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit.
“My father and Maria are to come to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and I hope
you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as
either of them.”
The wedding took place: the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church
door, and everybody had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth
soon heard from her friend, and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it
ever had been: that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could
never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over; and,
though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had
been rather than what was. Charlotte’s first letters were received with a good deal of
eagerness: there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new
home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce
herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte
expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote
cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could
not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and
Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s
picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she
must wait for her own visit there, to know the rest.
Jane had already written a few lines to her sister, to announce their safe arrival in
London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say
something of the Bingleys.
Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally
is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She
accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from
Longbourn had by some accident been lost.
“My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I
shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.”

She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. “I did not
think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was very glad to see me, and
reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right,
therefore; my last letter had never reached her. I inquired after their brother, of course.
He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I
found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner: I wish I could see her. My visit was not
long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall soon see them
here.”
Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that accident only could
discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in town.
Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to
persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss
Bingley’s inattention. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and
inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last appear; but the
shortness of her stay, and, yet more, the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to
deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will
prove what she felt:—
“My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her better
judgment, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in
Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you
right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour
was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her
reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but, if the same circumstances were to
happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit
till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she did
come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal
apology for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was, in
every respect, so altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved
to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming, her. She
was very wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say, that every advance to
intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been
acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it.
I need not explain myself farther; and though we know this anxiety to be quite
needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so
deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may feel on his behalf is
natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now,
because if he had at all cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows
of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and yet it would
seem, by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is really
partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I
should be almost tempted to say, that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all

this. I will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of what will
make me happy, your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt.
Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning
to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better
not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our
friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you
will be very comfortable there.
“Yours, etc.”
This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned, as she considered that
Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least. All expectation from the brother
was now absolutely over. She would not even wish for any renewal of his attentions.
His character sunk on every review of it; and, as a punishment for him, as well as a
possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.
Darcy’s sister, as, by Wickham’s account, she would make him abundantly regret what
he had thrown away.
Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise concerning that
gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather
give contentment to her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his
attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful
enough to see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain. Her heart
had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing that she
would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The sudden acquisition of
ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he
was now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this
case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.
Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and, while able to suppose that it cost
him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and desirable
measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him happy.
All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and, after relating the circumstances,
she thus went on:—“I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much
in love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present
detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only
cordial towards him, they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that
I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good sort of girl.
There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness has been effectual; and though I
should certainly be a more interesting object to all my acquaintance, were I
distractedly in love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.
Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take his
defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways of the world, and
not yet open to the mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have
something to live on as well as the plain.”

“On the Stairs.”

CHAPTERXXVII.
ITH no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise
diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and
sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take
Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of going
thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan, and she gradually
learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence
had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr.
Collins. There was novelty in the scheme; and as, with such a mother and such
uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change was not
unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would, moreover, give her a peep at Jane;
and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any delay.
Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to
Charlotte’s first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter.
The improvement of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan
became as perfect as plan could be.
The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, and who,
when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and
almost promised to answer her letter.
The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on his side
even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the
first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be
admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment,
reminding her of what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting
their opinion of her—their opinion of everybody—would always coincide, there was a
solicitude, an interest, which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most sincere
regard; and she parted from him convinced, that, whether married or single, he must
always be her model of the amiable and pleasing.
Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think him less
agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as
empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were
listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved
absurdities, but she had known Sir William’s too long. He could tell her nothing new
of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out,
like his information.
It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in
Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a
drawing-room window watching their arrival: when they entered the passage, she was
there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to

see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,
whose eagerness for their cousin’s appearance would not allow them to wait in the
drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth,
prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day passed most
pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the
theatres.
Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her sister; and
she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that
though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It
was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner
gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and
repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which
proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance.
Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and complimented
her on bearing it so well.
“But, my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss King? I should be
sorry to think our friend mercenary.”
“Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the
mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin?
Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent;
and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to
find out that he is mercenary.”
“If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think.”
“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.”
“But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather’s death made her
mistress of this fortune?”
“No—why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain my affections,
because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom
he did not care about, and who was equally poor?”
“But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her so soon after
this event.”
“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums
which other people may observe. If she does not object to it, why should we?”
“Her not objecting does not justify him. It only shows her being deficient in
something herself—sense or feeling.”
“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. He shall be mercenary, and she
shall be foolish.”
“No, Lizzy, that is what I do not choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of
a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.”

“Oh, if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire;
and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of
them all. Thank heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not
one agreeable quality, who has neither manners nor sense to recommend him. Stupid
men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.”
“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected
happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which
they proposed taking in the summer.
“We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs. Gardiner; “but
perhaps, to the Lakes.”
No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the
invitation was most ready and grateful. “My dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried,
“what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to
disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains? Oh, what hours of
transport we shall spend! And when we do return, it shall not be like other travellers,
without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We will know where we have
gone—we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers, shall not be
jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when we attempt to describe any particular
scene, will we begin quarrelling about its relative situation. Let our first effusions be
less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.”

“At the door.”

CHAPTERXXVIII.

VERY object in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to
Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had seen
her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, and the
prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.
When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was
in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. The paling
of Rosings park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of
all that she had heard of its inhabitants.
At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road, the house
standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge, everything declared they were
arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at
the small gate, which led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and
smiles of the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the
sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and
Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming, when she found herself so
affectionately received. She saw instantly that her cousin’s manners were not altered
by his marriage: his formal civility was just what it had been; and he detained her
some minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her family. They
were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance, taken
into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second
time, with ostentatious formality, to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his
wife’s offers of refreshment.
Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help fancying
that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect, and its furniture, he
addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost
in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able
to gratify him by any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at her friend,
that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr. Collins said
anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not
seldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern
a faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to
admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give
an account of their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr. Collins
invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the
cultivation of which he attended himself. To work in his garden was one of his most
respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance with which
Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as
much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and
scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was
pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the
fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most distant
clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which the country or the kingdom

could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an
opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It
was a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground.
From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows; but the
ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and
while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the
house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without
her husband’s help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything
was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency, of which Elizabeth gave
Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was really a great
air of comfort throughout, and by Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth
supposed he must be often forgotten.
She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It was spoken
of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining in, observed,—
“Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de
Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with
her. She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured
with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in
saying that she will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she
honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We
dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her
Ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I should say, one of her Ladyship’s
carriages, for she has several.”
“Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman, indeed,” added Charlotte,
“and a most attentive neighbour.”
“Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one
cannot regard with too much deference.”
The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and telling again
what had been already written; and when it closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her
chamber, had to meditate upon Charlotte’s degree of contentment, to understand her
address in guiding, and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge
that it was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the
quiet tenour of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr. Collins,
and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it
all.
About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready for a walk,
a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in confusion; and, after
listening a moment, she heard somebody running upstairs in a violent hurry, and
calling loudly after her. She opened the door, and met Maria in the landing-place, who,
breathless with agitation, cried out,—

“In Conversation with the ladies”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

“Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for there is
such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this
moment.”
Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more; and down
they ran into the dining-room which fronted the lane, in quest of this wonder; it was
two ladies, stopping in a low phaeton at the garden gate.
“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs were got into
the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter!”

“La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is not Lady Catherine.
The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them. The other is Miss De Bourgh.
Only look at her. She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought she could be
so thin and small!”
“She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind. Why does
she not come in?”
“Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours when Miss
De Bourgh comes in.”
“I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. “She looks sickly
and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make him a very proper wife.”
Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation with the
ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in
earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever
Miss De Bourgh looked that way.
At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and the others
returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two girls than he began to
congratulate them on their good fortune, which Charlotte explained by letting them
know that the whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.

“Lady Catherine, said she, you have given me a treasure.”

CHAPTER XXIX.
R. COLLINS’S triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete.
The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering
visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his wife,
was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of doing it

should be given so soon was such an instance of Lady Catherine’s condescension as he
knew not how to admire enough.
“I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all surprised by her Ladyship’s
asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected,
from my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could have
foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined that we should receive an
invitation to dine there (an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so
immediately after your arrival?”
“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William, “from that
knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which my situation in life has
allowed me to acquire. About the court, such instances of elegant breeding are not
uncommon.”
Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their visit to
Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what they were to expect, that
the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly
overpower them.
When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth,—
“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady Catherine
is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which becomes herself and daughter. I
would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—
there is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you
for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved.”
While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different doors, to
recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept
waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of her Ladyship, and her manner of
living, quite frightened Maria Lucas, who had been little used to company; and she
looked forward to her introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father
had done to his presentation at St. James’s.
As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the
park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be
pleased with, though she could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins expected the
scene to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in
front of the house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally cost
Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every moment
increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. Elizabeth’s courage did
not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any
extraordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank
she thought she could witness without trepidation.
From the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a rapturous air, the
fine proportion and finished ornaments, they followed the servants through an

antechamber to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson
were sitting. Her Ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as
Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should be
hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks
which he would have thought necessary.
In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so completely awed by the
grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage enough to make a very low
bow, and take his seat without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out
of her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth
found herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her
composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features,
which might once have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her
manner of receiving them such as to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She
was not rendered formidable by silence: but whatever she said was spoken in so
authoritative a tone as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham
immediately to Elizabeth’s mind; and, from the observation of the day altogether, she
believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he had represented.
When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment she soon
found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the daughter, she could
almost have joined in Maria’s astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There
was neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was
pale and sickly: her features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very
little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing
remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she said, and placing a
screen in the proper direction before her eyes.
After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to admire the
view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly
informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer.
The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants, and all the
articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he
took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her Ladyship’s desire, and looked as if he
felt that life could furnish nothing greater. He carved and ate and praised with
delighted alacrity; and every dish was commended first by him, and then by Sir
William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a
manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine
seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most gracious smiles,
especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty to them. The party did not
supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an
opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh—the former of
whom was engaged in listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her
all the dinnertime. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss
de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish and fearing she was indisposed.

Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and
admire.
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be done but to
hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any intermission till coffee came in,
delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was
not used to have her judgment controverted. She inquired into Charlotte’s domestic
concerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice as to the
management of them all; told her how everything ought to be regulated in so small a
family as hers, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth
found that nothing was beneath this great lady’s attention which could furnish her with
an occasion for dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins,
she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter,
of whose connections she knew the least, and who, she observed to Mrs. Collins, was
a very genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her at different times how many sisters
she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of them were
likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they had been educated,
what carriage her father kept, and what had been her mother’s maiden name?
Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions, but answered them very
composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,—
“Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think? For your sake,” turning to
Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from
the female line. It was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you
play and sing, Miss Bennet?”
“A little.”
“Oh then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a
capital one, probably superior to —— you shall try it some day. Do your sisters play
and sing?”
“One of them does.”
“Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs all
play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do you draw?”
“No, not at all.”
“What, none of you?”
“Not one.”
“That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother should
have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.”
“My mother would have no objection, but my father hates London.”
“Has your governess left you?”
“We never had any governess.”
“No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home
without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite

a slave to your education.”
Elizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not been the case.
“Then who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you must have
been neglected.”
“Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as wished to
learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had all the
masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle certainly might.”
“Ay, no doubt: but that is what a governess will prevent; and if I had known your
mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one. I always say that
nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody
but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many families I have been the means
of supplying in that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four
nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and it was
but the other day that I recommended another young person, who was merely
accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted with her. Mrs.
Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe’s calling yesterday to thank me? She finds
Miss Pope a treasure. ‘Lady Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have given me a treasure.’ Are
any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”
“Yes, ma’am, all.”
“All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The younger
ones out before the elder are married! Your younger sisters must be very young?”
“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps she is full young to be much in
company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters that
they should not have their share of society and amusement, because the elder may not
have the means or inclination to marry early. The last born has as good a right to the
pleasures of youth as the first. And to be kept back on such a motive! I think it would
not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”
“Upon my word,” said her Ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly for so
young a person. Pray, what is your age?”
“With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your Ladyship
can hardly expect me to own it.”
Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; and
Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so
much dignified impertinence.
“You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure,—therefore you need not conceal your
age.”
“I am not one-and-twenty.”
When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card tables were
placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille;
and as Miss De Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of

assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid.
Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs.
Jenkinson expressed her fears of Miss De Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or
having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the other table. Lady
Catherine was generally speaking—stating the mistakes of the three others, or relating
some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her
Ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and apologizing if he thought he
won too many. Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with
anecdotes and noble names.
When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose, the tables
were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted, and
immediately ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine
determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From these instructions
they were summoned by the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of
thankfulness on Mr. Collins’s side, and as many bows on Sir William’s, they departed.
As soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to
give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte’s sake, she
made more favourable than it really was. But her commendation, though costing her
some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to
take her Ladyship’s praise into his own hands.

CHAPTER XXX.
IR WILLIAM stayed only a week at Hunsford; but his visit was long
enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most comfortably settled,
and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not
often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his
mornings to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country: but
when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and
Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin by the
alteration; for the chief of the time between breakfast and dinner was now passed by
him either at work in the garden, or in reading and writing, and looking out of window
in his own book room, which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was
backwards. Elizabeth at first had rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the
dining parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a pleasanter
aspect: but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason for what she did, for

Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own apartment had they sat
in one equally lively; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and were
indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went along, and how often
especially Miss De Bourgh drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming to
inform them of, though it happened almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at
the Parsonage, and had a few minutes’ conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely
ever prevailed on to get out.
Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and not many
in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth
recollected that there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could not
understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they were honoured with a
call from her Ladyship, and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the
room during these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,
and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furniture,
or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed
to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of meat were too
large for her family.
Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in the commission of
the peace for the county, she was a most active magistrate in her own parish, the
minutest concerns of which were carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of
the cottagers were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied
forth into the village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold
them into harmony and plenty.

“he never failed to inform them”

The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; and,
allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one card-table in the
evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of the first. Their other
engagements were few, as the style of living of the neighbourhood in general was
beyond the Collinses’ reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the
whole she spent her time comfortably enough: there were half hours of pleasant
conversation with Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year, that she
had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she frequently
went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was along the open grove
which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice sheltered path, which no one

seemed to value but herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s
curiosity.
In this quiet way the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. Easter was
approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition to the family at
Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard, soon after
her arrival, that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few weeks; and
though there were not many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming
would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might
be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his
behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Catherine, who
talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest
admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen
by Miss Lucas and herself.
His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking the
whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to
have

“The gentlemen accompanied him.”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

the earliest assurance of it; and, after making his bow as the carriage turned into the
park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened
to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require

them, for Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of
his uncle, Lord ——; and, to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins
returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from her
husband’s room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told the
girls what an honour they might expect, adding,—
“I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would never have
come so soon to wait upon me.”
Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment before their
approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen
entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not
handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just
as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual
reserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her friend, met
her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely courtesied to him, without
saying a word.
Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly, with the readiness and ease
of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a
slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without
speaking to anybody. At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire
of Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual way; and,
after a moment’s pause, added,—
“My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened
to see her there?”
She was perfectly sensible that he never had: but she wished to see whether he
would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the Bingleys and Jane;
and she thought he looked a little confused as he answered that he had never been so
fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no further, and the
gentlemen soon afterwards went away.

CHAPTER XXXI.
OLONEL FITZWILLIAM’S manners were very much admired at the
Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the
pleasure of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however,
before they received any invitation thither, for while there were visitors in
the house they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,
almost a week after the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by such an

attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to come there in the
evening. For the last week they had seen very little of either Lady Catherine or her
daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the Parsonage more than once during the
time, but Mr. Darcy they had only seen at church.
The invitation was accepted, of course, and at a proper hour they joined the party
in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her Ladyship received them civilly, but it was
plain that their company was by no means so acceptable as when she could get nobody
else; and she was, in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them,
especially to Darcy, much more than to any other person in the room.
Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them: anything was a welcome relief
to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty friend had, moreover, caught his fancy
very much. He now seated himself by her, and talked so agreeably of Kent and
Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, that
Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before; and they
conversed with so much spirit and flow as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine
herself, as well as of Mr. Darcy. His eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards
them with a look of curiosity; and that her Ladyship, after a while, shared the feeling,
was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out,—
“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are
you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”
“We were talking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply.
“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my
share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music. There are few people in
England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better
natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would
Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have
performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”
Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s proficiency.
“I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady Catherine; “and
pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel, if she does not practise a great
deal.”
“I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice. She
practises very constantly.”
“So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write to her, I
shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies, that no
excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss
Bennet several times, that she will never play really well, unless she practises more;
and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told
her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson’s
room. She would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part of the house.”
Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and made no answer.

When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having
promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He drew a chair
near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other
nephew; till the latter walked away from her, and moving with his usual deliberation
towards the pianoforte, stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair
performer’s countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient
pause turned to him with an arch smile, and said,—
“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me. But I
will not be alarmed, though your sister does play so well. There is a stubbornness
about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always
rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”
“I shall not say that you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could not really
believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of
your acquaintance long enough to know, that you find great enjoyment in occasionally
professing opinions which, in fact, are not your own.”
Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel
Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not
to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well able
to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself
off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to
mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to
say, very impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come
out as will shock your relations to hear.”
“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.
“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I
should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”
“You shall hear, then—but prepare for something very dreadful. The first time of
my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball,
what do you think he did? He danced only four dances! I am sorry to pain you, but so
it was. He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain
knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr.
Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”
“I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my
own party.”
“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”
“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better had I sought an introduction,
but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”
“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still addressing
Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who
has lived in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”

“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to him. It is
because he will not give himself the trouble.”
“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, “of
conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of
conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”
“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly
manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity,
and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my
own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not
believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.”
Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time
much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything
wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”
Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what they
were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. Lady Catherine
approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said to Darcy,—
“Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and could have the
advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion of fingering, though her
taste is not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her
health allowed her to learn.”
Elizabeth looked at Darcy, to see how cordially he assented to his cousin’s praise:
but neither at that moment nor at any other could she discern any symptom of love;
and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss De Bourgh she derived this comfort for
Miss Bingley, that he might have been just as likely to marry her, had she been his
relation.
Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance, mixing with
them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received them with all the
forbearance of civility; and at the request of the gentlemen remained at the instrument
till her Ladyship’s carriage was ready to take them all home.

CHAPTER XXXII.
LIZABETH was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane, while Mrs.
Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village, when she was startled by a
ring at the door, the certain signal of a visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she
thought it not unlikely to be Lady Catherine; and under that apprehension was putting
away her half-finished letter, that she might escape all impertinent questions, when the

door opened, and to her very great surprise Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy
only, entered the room.
He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologized for his
intrusion, by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies to be
within.
They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made, seemed in
danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of
something; and in this emergency recollecting when she had seen him last in
Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their
hasty departure, she observed,—
“How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! It must
have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon;
for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope,
when you left London?”
“Perfectly so, I thank you.”
She found that she was to receive no other answer; and, after a short pause, added,
—
“I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to
Netherfield again?”
“I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of
his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is at a time of life when friends
and engagements are continually increasing.”
“If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood
that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled
family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the
convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep or
quit it on the same principle.”
“I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it up as soon as any
eligible purchase offers.”
Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his friend; and,
having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the trouble of finding a
subject to him.
He took the hint and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable house. Lady
Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.”
“I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a
more grateful object.”
“Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife.”
“Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very
few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they
had. My friend has an excellent understanding—though I am not certain that I consider

her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy,
however; and, in a prudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her.”
“It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own
family and friends.”
“An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.”
“And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day’s journey. Yes, I
call it a very easy distance.”
“I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the
match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled near her
family.”
“It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very
neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.”
As he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth fancied she understood; he
must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed as she
answered,—
“I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family. The far
and the near must be relative, and depend on many varying circumstances. Where
there is fortune to make the expense of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no
evil. But that is not the case here. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but
not such a one as will allow of frequent journeys—and I am persuaded my friend
would not call herself near her family under less than half the present distance.”
Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “You cannot have a right to
such very strong local attachment. You cannot have been always at Longbourn.”
Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of feeling; he
drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and, glancing over it, said, in a
colder voice,—
“Are you pleased with Kent?”
A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side calm and
concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte and her sister, just
returned from their walk. The tête-à-tête surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake
which had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and, after sitting a few minutes
longer, without saying much to anybody, went away.

“Accompanied by their aunt”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

“What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he was gone. “My
dear Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never have called on us in this
familiar way.”
But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely, even to
Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and, after various conjectures, they could at last
only suppose his visit to proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which
was the more probable from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors
there was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be always
within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk to
it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a temptation from this period
of walking thither almost every day. They called at various times of the morning,
sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their
aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in
their society, a persuasion which of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth
was reminded by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his evident
admiration, of her former favourite, George Wickham; and though, in comparing them,
she saw there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners, she
believed he might have the best informed mind.
But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage it was more difficult to
understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten minutes together
without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity
rather than of choice—a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom
appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel
Fitzwilliam’s occasionally laughing at his stupidity proved that he was generally
different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told her; and as she would
have liked to believe this change the effect of love, and the object of that love her
friend Eliza, she set herself seriously to work to find it out: she watched him whenever
they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success.
He certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that look was
disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were
much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence of mind.
She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his being partial to
her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to
press the subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only end in
disappointment; for in her opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend’s
dislike would vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.
In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying Colonel
Fitzwilliam. He was, beyond comparison, the pleasantest man: he certainly admired
her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages,

Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage in the church, and his cousin could have none at
all.

“On looking up.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.
ORE than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, unexpectedly meet Mr.
Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no

one else was brought; and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care
to inform him, at first, that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could
occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even the
third. It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance; for on these
occasions it was not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause
and then away, but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He
never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of listening
much; but it struck her in the course of their third encounter that he was asking some
odd unconnected questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of
solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s happiness; and that in
speaking of Rosings, and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to
expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying there too. His
words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She
supposed, if he meant anything, he must mean an allusion to what might arise in that
quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the
pales opposite the Parsonage.
She was engaged one day, as she walked, in re-perusing Jane’s last letter, and
dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in spirits, when,
instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw, on looking up, that Colonel
Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately, and forcing a smile,
she said,—
“I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”
“I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I generally do every year,
and intended to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”
“No, I should have turned in a moment.”
And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage together.
“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.
“Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He arranges the
business just as he pleases.”
“And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least great pleasure
in the power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of
doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.”
“He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. “But so we
all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he is
rich, and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be
inured to self-denial and dependence.”
“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now,
seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you
been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose or procuring
anything you had a fancy for?”

“These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced
many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from the
want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.”
“Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often do.”
“Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in my rank
of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money.”
“Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at the idea; but,
recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And pray, what is the usual price of an earl’s
younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask
above fifty thousand pounds.”
He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt a silence
which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed, she soon afterwards
said,—
“I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having
somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience
of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for the present; and, as she is under
his sole care, he may do what he likes with her.”
“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he must divide with
me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.”
“Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of a guardian do you make? Does your
charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult
to manage; and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way.”
As she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner in which
he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to give them any
uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She
directly replied,—
“You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare say she is
one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favourite with
some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard
you say that you know them.”
“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant, gentlemanlike man—he is a great
friend of Darcy’s.”
“Oh yes,” said Elizabeth drily—“Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley,
and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”
“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him in those points
where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I
have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his
pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all
conjecture.”
“What is it you mean?”

“It is a circumstance which Darcy of course could not wish to be generally known,
because if it were to get round to the lady’s family it would be an unpleasant thing.”
“You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”
“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What
he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a
friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning
names or any other particulars; and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing
him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to
have been together the whole of last summer.”
“Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?”
“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.”
“And what arts did he use to separate them?”
“He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He only told me
what I have now told you.”
Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with indignation.
After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful.
“I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your cousin’s conduct
does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?”
“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”
“I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s
inclination; or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to determine and direct in
what manner that friend was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as
we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed
that there was much affection in the case.”
“That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam; “but it is lessening the honour
of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.”
This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of Mr. Darcy, that
she would not trust herself with an answer; and, therefore, abruptly changing the
conversation, talked on indifferent matters till they reached the Parsonage. There, shut
into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without
interruption of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people
could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the
world two men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence. That he
had been concerned in the measures taken to separate Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had
never doubted; but she had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and
arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, he was the
cause—his pride and caprice were the cause—of all that Jane had suffered, and still
continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most
affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he
might have inflicted.

“There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were Colonel
Fitzwilliam’s words; and these strong objections probably were, her having one uncle
who was a country attorney, and another who was in business in London.
“To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of objection,—all
loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding excellent, her mind improved,
and her manners captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father, who,
though with some peculiarities, has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not
disdain, and respectability which he will probably never reach.” When she thought of
her mother, indeed, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any
objections there had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced,
would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his friend’s connections
than from their want of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been
partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr.
Bingley for his sister.
The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned brought on a headache; and it
grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr.
Darcy, it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were
engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her
to go, and as much as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr.
Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather
displeased by her staying at home.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
HEN they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as
much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being
in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of
past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all,
and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been
used to characterize her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at

ease with itself, and kindly disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever
clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast
of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a keener sense of her sister’s
sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the
day after the next, and a still greater that in less than a fortnight she should herself be
with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, by all that
affection could do.
She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin
was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no
intentions at all, and, agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell;
and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam
himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to
inquire particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were
very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into
the room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health,
imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with
cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up walked about the
room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes,
he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:—
“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You
must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted,
and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that
he felt and had long felt for her immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were
feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the
subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority, of its being a
degradation, of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to
inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he
was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment
of such a man’s affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she
was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till roused to resentment by his
subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose
herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
representing to her the strength of that attachment which in spite of all his endeavours
he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now
be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this she could easily see that he
had no doubt of a favourable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his

countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate
farther; and when he ceased the colour rose into her cheeks and she said,—
“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of
obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is
natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank
you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly
bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has
been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The
feelings which you tell me have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard
can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”
Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his eyes fixed on her
face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion
became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature.
He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he
believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth’s feelings dreadful. At
length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,—
“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might,
perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus
rejected. But it is of small importance.”
“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why, with so evident a design of offending
and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your
reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I
was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own
feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been
favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man
who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved
sister?”
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion was
short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued,—
“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the
unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you
have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of
exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its
derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
kind.”
She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air
which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her
with a smile of affected incredulity.
“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.
With assumed tranquillity he then replied, “I have no wish of denying that I did
everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my

success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.”
Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning
did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.
“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike is founded.
Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was
unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this
subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here
defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?”
“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said Darcy, in a less
tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.
“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an interest in
him?”
“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy, contemptuously,—“yes, his misfortunes have
been great indeed.”
“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth, with energy; “You have reduced him to
his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages
which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best
years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You
have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt
and ridicule.”
“And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, “is your
opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining
it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But, perhaps,”
added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “these offences might have
been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples
that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might
have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered
you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by
reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor
am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect
me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?—to congratulate myself on the
hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”
Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to the
utmost to speak with composure when she said,—
“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration
affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt
in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”
She saw him start at this; but he said nothing, and she continued,—
“You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that
would have tempted me to accept it.”

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of
mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on,—
“From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my
acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your
arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as
to form that groundwork of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so
immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and
have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken
up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next
moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of her mind was now
painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and, from actual weakness, sat
down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had
passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
marriage from Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for so many
months! so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which
had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must appear at least
with equal force in his own case, was almost incredible! it was gratifying to have
inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his
shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his unpardonable
assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner
which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not
attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment
had for a moment excited.
She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine’s
carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s observation, and
hurried her away to her room.

“Hearing herself called.”

CHAPTER XXXV.
LIZABETH awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and
meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet
recover from the surprise of what had happened: it was impossible to
think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she
resolved soon after breakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise. She
was proceeding directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s
sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up
the lane which led her farther from the turnpike road. The park paling was still the
boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the ground.
After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by
the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five

weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country,
and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of
continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of
grove which edged the park: he was moving that way; and fearful of its being Mr.
Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough
to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name. She had turned
away; but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy,
she moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it also; and, holding
out a letter, which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure, “I
have been walking in the grove some time, in the hope of meeting you. Will you do
me the honour of reading that letter?” and then, with a slight bow, turned again into the
plantation, and was soon out of sight.
With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened
the letter, and to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two
sheets of letter paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself
was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated
from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:—
“Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its
containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were
last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or
humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both, cannot be
too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter
must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written
and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your
attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your
justice.
“Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you
last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments
of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister,—and the other, that I had, in
defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate
prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly to have
thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a
young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who
had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the
separation of two young persons whose affection could be the growth of only a few
weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last
night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future
secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If,
in the explanation of them which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating
feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity
must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd. I had not been long in
Hertfordshire before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder

sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the
dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I
had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with
you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental information, that
Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their
marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be
undecided. From that moment I observed my friend’s behaviour attentively; and I
could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever
witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open,
cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard; and I
remained convinced, from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she received his
attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If
you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior
knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been
misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable.
But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister’s countenance and air
was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however
amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous
of believing her indifferent is certain; but I will venture to say that my investigations
and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to
be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I
wished it in reason. My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last
night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside in my
own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me.
But there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and
existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget,
because they were not immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though
briefly. The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in
comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed
by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father:—
pardon me,—it pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of
your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give
you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share
of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister
than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say, farther, that
from what passed that evening my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every
inducement heightened, which could have led me before to preserve my friend from
what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London on the
day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning. The
part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally
excited with my own: our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike
sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on

joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in
the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described
and enforced them earnestly. But however this remonstrance might have staggered or
delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the
marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which I hesitated not in giving, of
your sister’s indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with
sincere, if not with equal, regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a
stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore,
that he had deceived himself was no very difficult point. To persuade him against
returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the
work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one
part of my conduct, in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is
that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your
sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her
brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is,
perhaps, probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to
see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me.
It is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more
to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was
unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very
naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.—With respect to
that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute
it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has
particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate I can
summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a
very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley
estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my
father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his
kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and
afterwards at Cambridge; most important assistance, as his own father, always poor
from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman’s
education. My father was not only fond of this young man’s society, whose manners
were always engaging, he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church
would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many,
many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious
propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same
age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments,
which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree
you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has
created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real
character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five years ago;

and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he
particularly recommended it to me to promote his advancement in the best manner that
his profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living
might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand
pounds. His own father did not long survive mine; and within half a year from these
events Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking
orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more
immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I must be aware
that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I
rather wished than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. The
business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church,
were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return
three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought
too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town, I
believe, he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence; and being now
free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three
years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had
been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His
circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly
bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved
on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of which he
trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to
provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father’s intentions. You will
hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every
repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—
and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to
myself. After this period, every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he
lived, I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my
notice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and
which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human
being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more
than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an
establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who
presided over it to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by
design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance
and aid he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart
retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded
to believe herself in love and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen,

which must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I
owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before
the intended elopement; and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving
and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the
whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister’s
credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who
left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge.
Mr. Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty
thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on
me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed. This,
madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned
together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me
henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what
form of falsehood, he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be
wondered at, ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either.
Detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.
You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of
everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel
Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as
one of the executors of my father’s will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every
particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions
valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin;
and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some
opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only
add, God bless you.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

ELIZABETH, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to
contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its
contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly she
went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. Her
feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she
first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and
steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation to give,
which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice
against everything he might say, she began his account of what had
happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her
power of comprehension; and from impatience of knowing what the next
sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one
before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s insensibility she instantly
resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to
the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He
expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his style
was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham
—when she read, with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events
which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and
which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her feelings were
yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension,
and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly
exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest
falsehood!”—and when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely
knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would
not regard it, that she would never look in it again.
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she
walked on; but it would not do: in half a minute the letter was unfolded again; and
collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all
that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of
every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly
what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had
not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each
recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the difference was great.
What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory; and as she recalled his
very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or
the other, and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But
when she read and re-read, with the closest attention, the particulars immediately
following of Wickham’s resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving in lieu
so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She
put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be

impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but with little success.
On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on. But every line proved more
clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could
so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a
turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.
The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to Mr.
Wickham’s charge exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could bring no proof
of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the ——shire
militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting
him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way
of life, nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told

“Meeting accidentally in Town”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a
wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had established him at once in the
possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some
distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of
Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors, under
which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and
vice of many years’ continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see
him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address, but she could remember no
more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard
which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a
considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed,
of his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between
Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was referred for

the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself—from whom she had
previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs and
whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on
applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at
length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such
a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin’s corroboration.
She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between
Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips’s. Many of his expressions were
still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such
communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the
indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his
professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of
seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his
ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered,
also, that till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no
one but herself; but that after their removal, it had been everywhere discussed; that he had
then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her
that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.
How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions
to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the
mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his
eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable
motive: he had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his
vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously
shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in further
justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by
Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair;—that, proud and repulsive as
were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance—an
acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of
intimacy with his ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust—
anything that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits;—that among his own
connections he was esteemed and valued;—that even Wickham had allowed him merit as
a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove
him capable of some amiable feeling;—that had his actions been what Wickham
represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been
concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it and such an
amiable man as Mr. Bingley was incomprehensible.
She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she
think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.
“How despicably have I acted!” she cried. “I, who have prided myself on my
discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the
generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameless distrust.
How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I

could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly.
Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very
beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven
reason away where either were concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.”
From herself to Jane, from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon
brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s explanation there had appeared very
insufficient; and she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal.
How could she deny that credit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been
obliged to give in the other? He declared himself to have been totally unsuspicious of her
sister’s attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had
always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane. She felt that
Jane’s feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant
complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great sensibility.
When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned, in tones
of such mortifying, yet merited, reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of
the charge struck her too forcibly for denial; and the circumstances to which he
particularly alluded, as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his
first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers.
The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not
console her for the contempt which had been thus self-attracted by the rest of her family;
and as she considered that Jane’s disappointment had, in fact, been the work of her
nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such
impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.
After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought,
reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she
could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long
absence, made her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of
appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must
make her unfit for conversation.
She was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called
during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take leave, but that Colonel
Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost
resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just affect concern
in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object. She
could think only of her letter.

“His parting obeisance.”

CHAPTER XXXVII.
HE two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning; and Mr. Collins having
been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was able
to bring home the pleasing intelligence of their appearing in very good
health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the melancholy
scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened to
console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return brought back,
with great satisfaction, a message from her Ladyship, importing that she felt herself so
dull as to make her very desirous of having them all to dine with her.
Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had she chosen it,
she might by this time have been presented to her as her future niece; nor could she think,
without a smile, of what her Ladyship’s indignation would have been. “What would she

have said? how would she have behaved?” were the questions with which she amused
herself.
Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings’ party. “I assure you, I feel it
exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I believe nobody feels the loss of friends so much as
I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men; and know them to be so much
attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear
Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most
acutely—more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases.”
Mr. Collins had a compliment and an allusion to throw in here, which were kindly
smiled on by the mother and daughter.
Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of spirits; and
immediately accounting for it herself, by supposing that she did not like to go home again
so soon, she added,—
“But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to beg that you may stay a little
longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company, I am sure.”
“I am much obliged to your Ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied Elizabeth;
“but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday.”
“Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two
months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There can be no occasion for your going
so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight.”
“But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.”

“Dawson”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

“Oh, your father, of course, may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters are never of
so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay another month complete, it will be
in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a
week; and as Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room
for one of you—and, indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not object
to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.”
“You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our original plan.”
Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant with them.
You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women
travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody.
I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always
be properly guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my niece
Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two men-servants
go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could
not have appeared with propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all
those things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it
occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be discreditable to you to let them go
alone.”
“My uncle is to send a servant for us.”
“Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you have
somebody who thinks of those things. Where shall you change horses? Oh, Bromley, of
course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to.”
Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey; and as she
did not answer them all herself attention was necessary—which Elizabeth believed to be
lucky for her; or, with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was.
Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours: whenever she was alone, she gave way to
it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might
indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections.
Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She studied every
sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at times widely different. When she
remembered the style of his address, she was still full of indignation: but when she
considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned
against herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. His
attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect: but she could not approve
him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the slightest inclination ever to
see him again. In her own past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and
regret: and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They
were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert
himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her mother, with
manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had

frequently united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine and
Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother’s indulgence, what chance could
there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under
Lydia’s guidance, had been always affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and
careless, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While
there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while Meryton was within
a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there for ever.
Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy’s
explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, heightened the sense of
what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct
cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his
friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every
respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived,
by the folly and indecorum of her own family!
When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham’s character, it
may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before
were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably
cheerful.
Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of her stay as
they had been at first. The very last evening was spent there; and her Ladyship again
inquired minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best
method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right
way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the
morning, and pack her trunk afresh.
When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them a good
journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; and Miss de Bourgh
exerted herself so far as to courtesy and hold out her hand to both.

“The elevation of his feelings.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
N Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few
minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of paying
the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.
“I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has yet
expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very certain
you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it. The favour of your
company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to
our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and
the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like
yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have
done everything in our power to prevent you spending your time unpleasantly.”

Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had spent six
weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with Charlotte, and the kind
attention she had received, must make her feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified; and
with a more smiling solemnity replied,—
“It gives me the greatest pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not
disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately having it in our
power to introduce you to very superior society, and from our connection with Rosings,
the frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves
that your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to
Lady Catherine’s family is, indeed, the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing
which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see how continually we are
engaged there. In truth, I must acknowledge, that, with all the disadvantages of this
humble parsonage, I should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while
they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”
Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was obliged to walk
about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.
“You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into Hertfordshire, my dear
cousin. I flatter myself, at least, that you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine’s great
attentions to Mrs. Collins you have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does
not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate—but on this point it will be as well
to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart
most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one
mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of
character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.”
Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was the case, and
with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic
comforts. She was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by the
entrance of the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave
her to such society! But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently
regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home
and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had
not yet lost their charms.
At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within,
and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting between the friends,
Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins; and as they walked down the
garden, he was commissioning her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting
his thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his
compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria
followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly reminded
them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for
the ladies of Rosings.

“They had forgotten to leave any message”

“But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects delivered to
them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here.”

Elizabeth made no objection: the door was then allowed to be shut, and the carriage
drove off.
“Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it seems but a day or two
since we first came! and yet how many things have happened!”
“A great many indeed,” said her companion, with a sigh.
“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice! How much I
shall have to tell!”
Elizabeth privately added, “And how much I shall have to conceal!”
Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and within
four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were
to remain a few days.
Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst
the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane
was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for
observation.
It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for Longbourn,
before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s proposals. To know that she had the power of
revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly
gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a
temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered, but the state of indecision in
which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate, and her fear, if she
once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley, which
might only grieve her sister further.

“How nicely we are crammed in.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.
T was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out
together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ——, in Hertfordshire; and,
as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was to meet
them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman’s punctuality, both
Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs. These two girls had
been above an hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite
milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad and cucumber.

After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such
cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? is not this an
agreeable surprise?”
“And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia; “but you must lend us the money, for
we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then showing her purchases,—“Look here,
I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy
it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
better.”
And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect unconcern, “Oh, but
there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-
coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not
much signify what one wears this summer, after the ——shire have left Meryton, and
they are going in a fortnight.”
“Are they, indeed?” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.
“They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to take us all
there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme, and I dare say would hardly
cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go, too, of all things! Only think what a
miserable summer else we shall have!”
“Yes,” thought Elizabeth; “that would be a delightful scheme, indeed, and completely
do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton and a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who
have been overset already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of
Meryton!”
“Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down to table. “What do
you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about a certain person that we all like.”
Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that he need not stay.
Lydia laughed, and said,—
“Ay, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the waiter must not
hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But
he is an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well,
but now for my news: it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it? There
is no danger of Wickham’s marrying Mary King—there’s for you! She is gone down to
her uncle at Liverpool; gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”
“And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection imprudent as to
fortune.”
“She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”
“But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane.
“I am sure there is not on his. I will answer for it, he never cared three straws about
her. Who could about such a nasty little freckled thing?”
Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such coarseness of
expression herself, the coarseness of the sentiment was little other than her own breast
had formerly harboured and fancied liberal!

As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered; and, after
some contrivance, the whole party, with all their boxes, workbags, and parcels, and the
unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it.
“How nicely we are crammed in!” cried Lydia. “I am glad I brought my bonnet, if it is
only for the fun of having another band-box! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and
snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear what has
happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you
had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before
you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three-and-
twenty! Lord! how ashamed I should be of not being married before three-and-twenty!
My aunt Philips wants you so to get husbands you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better
have taken Mr. Collins; but I do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! how
I should like to be married before any of you! and then I would chaperon you about to all
the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Forster’s!
Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance
in the evening; (by-the-bye, Mrs. Forster and me are such friends!) and so she asked the
two Harringtons to come: but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by herself;
and then, what do you think we did? We dressed up Chamberlayne in woman’s clothes,
on purpose to pass for a lady,—only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel
and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow one of
her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny, and Wickham,
and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the least.
Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died. And that
made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out what was the matter.”
With such kind of histories of their parties and good jokes did Lydia, assisted by
Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions all the way to
Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the
frequent mention of Wickham’s name.
Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in
undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to
Elizabeth,——
“I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”
Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases came to meet
Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects which occupied them: Lady
Lucas was inquiring of Maria, across the table, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest
daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the
present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other, retailing them
all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other
person’s, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would
hear her.
“Oh, Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! as we went
along Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach;
and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to the

George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the
nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated
you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have
got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way
home! we talked and laughed so loud, that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!”
To this, Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate
such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds.
But I confess they would have no charms for me. I should infinitely prefer a book.”
But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to anybody for more
than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.
In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and
see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be
said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of
the officers. There was another reason, too, for her opposition. She dreaded seeing
Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to her, of
the regiment’s approaching removal, was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they
were to go, and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his
account.
She had not been many hours at home, before she found that the Brighton scheme, of
which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between her
parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding;
but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though
often disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.

CHAPTER XL.
LIZABETH’S impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no
longer be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular in
which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she related
to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.
Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural;
and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should
have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but still
more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister’s refusal must have given him.
“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly ought not to
have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his disappointment.”
“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has other feelings
which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however,
for refusing him?”
“Blame you! Oh, no.”

“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”
“No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”
“But you will know it, when I have told you what happened the very next day.”
She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they
concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane, who would willingly
have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the
whole race of mankind as was here collected in one individual! Nor was Darcy’s
vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.
Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear one,
without involving the other.
“This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both of them good
for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such
a quantity of merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and of late
it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr.
Darcy’s, but you shall do as you choose.”
It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.
“I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham so very bad! It
is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have
suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion too! and
having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too distressing, I am sure you must
feel it so.”
“Oh no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I
know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more
unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over
him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.”
“Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance! such an
openness and gentleness in his manner.”
“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young
men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.”
“I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the appearance of it as you used to do.”
“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him,
without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s genius, such an opening for wit, to have a
dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying anything just; but one
cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.”
“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you
do now.”
“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I was very uncomfortable—I may
say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of what I felt, no Jane to comfort me, and say
that I had not been so very weak, and vain, and nonsensical, as I knew I had! Oh, how I
wanted you!”

“How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions in speaking
of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they do appear wholly undeserved.”
“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural
consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point on which I want
your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in
general understand Wickham’s character.”
Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no occasion for
exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?”
“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to make his
communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to
be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the
rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so
violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to attempt to place
him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and, therefore,
it will not signify to anybody here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found
out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will
say nothing about it.”
“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is
now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We
must not make him desperate.”
The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of
two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing
listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was still
something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate
the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been
valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was
sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify
her in throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if that very
improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may
tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be
mine till it has lost all its value!”
She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her
sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley.
Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first
attachment, and from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments
often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every
other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were
requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her
own health and their tranquillity.
“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, one day, “what is your opinion now of this sad
business of Jane’s? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I
told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him
in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man—and I do not suppose there is the

least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to
Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of everybody, too, who is likely to
know.”

“I am determined never to speak of it again”

“I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”
“Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come; though I shall always
say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and, if I was her, I would not have put up with
it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry
for what he has done.”
But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation she made no
answer.
“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the Collinses live very
comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they
keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother,
she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in their housekeeping, I dare say.”
“No, nothing at all.”
“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. They will take care not
to outrun their income. They will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it
do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is
dead. They look upon it quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.”
“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”
“No; it would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt they often talk of it
between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their
own, so much the better. I should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on
me.”

“When Colonel Miller’s regiment went.”

CHAPTER XLI.
HE first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the
last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the
neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal.
The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and
pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were they
reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and
who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any of the family.

“Good Heaven! What is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they often
exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so, Lizzy?”
Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what she had herself
endured on a similar occasion five-and-twenty years ago.
“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel Miller’s regiment
went away. I thought I should have broke my heart.”
“I am sure I shall break mine,” said Lydia.
“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.
“Oh yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable.”
“A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever.”
“And my aunt Philips is sure it would do me a great deal of good,” added Kitty.
Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn
House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame.
She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she before been so
much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his friend.
But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an
invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to
Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A
resemblance in good-humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each
other, and out of their three months’ acquaintance they had been intimate two.
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of
Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly
inattentive to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling
for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate in terms as
unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask me as well as Lydia,” said she, “though
I am not her particular friend. I have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more
too, for I am two years older.”
In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned.
As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings
as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of
common sense for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her, were it known,
she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all
the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from
the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater
than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,—
“Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public place or other,
and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family
as under the present circumstances.”

“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to us all, which
must arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner, nay, which
has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair.”
“Already arisen!” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What! has she frightened away some of your
lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear
to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of
the pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.”
“Indeed, you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not of peculiar, but
of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the
world, must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint
which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me,—for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that
her present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the
reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed; and she will, at sixteen, be the most
determined flirt that ever made herself and her family ridiculous;—a flirt, too, in the
worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a
tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to
ward off any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will excite.
In this danger Kitty is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh, my dear father, can you suppose it
possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that
their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?”
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and, affectionately taking her
hand, said, in reply,—
“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known, you must
be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of
—or I may say, three—very silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia
does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep
her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to
anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt than she has
been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore,
that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
many degrees worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life.”
With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion continued
the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to
increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having performed her
duty; and to fret over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her
disposition.
Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her father,
their indignation would hardly have found expression in their united volubility. In Lydia’s
imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. She
saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with
officers. She saw herself the object of attention to tens and to scores of them at present

unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp: its tents stretched forth in beauteous
uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and,
to complete the view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least
six officers at once.

“Tenderly flirting”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

Had she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such realities
as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have been understood only by
her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that
consoled her for the melancholy conviction of her husband’s never intending to go there
himself.
But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures continued, with
little intermission, to the very day of Lydia’s leaving home.

Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been frequently in
company with him since her return, agitation was pretty well over; the agitations of
former partiality entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which
had first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present
behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure; for the inclination
he soon testified of renewing those attentions which had marked the early part of their
acquaintance could only serve, after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all
concern for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous
gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the reproof contained in
his believing, that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had been
withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference secured, at any time, by
their renewal.
On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining in Meryton, he dined, with others of
the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good-
humour, that, on his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed
at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both spent
three weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former.
He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but, with a moment’s recollection, and a
returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen him often; and, after observing that he
was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly
in his favour. With an air of indifference, he soon afterwards added, “How long did you
say that he was at Rosings?”
“Nearly three weeks.”
“And you saw him frequently?”
“Yes, almost every day.”
“His manners are very different from his cousin’s.”
“Yes, very different; but I think Mr. Darcy improves on acquaintance.”
“Indeed!” cried Wickham, with a look which did not escape her. “And pray may I ask
—” but checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves?
Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style? for I dare not hope,” he
continued, in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.”
“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.”
While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over her
words or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her countenance which
made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added,—
“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that either his mind or
manners were in a state of improvement; but that, from knowing him better, his
disposition was better understood.”
Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look; for a
few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and
said in the gentlest of accents,—

“You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend
how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the appearance of
what is right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many
others, for it must deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear
that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely
adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in
awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good
deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I
am certain he has very much at heart.”
Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a slight
inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his
grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with
the appearance, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to
distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual
desire of never meeting again.
When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, from whence
they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family
was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep
from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her
daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the opportunity of
enjoying herself as much as possible,—advice which there was every reason to believe
would be attended to; and, in the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding
farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.

“The arrival of the Gardiners.”

CHAPTER XLII.
AD Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a
very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by

youth and beauty, and that appearance of good-humour which youth and
beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and
illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection
for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his
views of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a
disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had
brought on in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their
folly or their vice. He was fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes had
arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted than as
her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of
happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers
of entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are
given.
Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her father’s behaviour
as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful
for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not
overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation
and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so
highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages which
must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the
evils arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents—talents which, rightly used, might
at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging
the mind of his wife.
When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure, she found little other cause
for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than
before; and at home she had a mother and sister, whose constant repinings at the dulness
of everything around them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though
Kitty might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain
were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil might be
apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance, by a situation of
such double danger as a watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she
found, what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked
forward with impatient desire, did not, in taking place, bring all the satisfaction she had
promised herself. It was consequently necessary to name some other period for the
commencement of actual felicity; to have some other point on which her wishes and
hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself
for the present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes was now
the object of her happiest thoughts: it was her best consolation for all the uncomfortable
hours which the discontentedness of her mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she
have included Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.
“But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to wish for. Were the whole
arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain. But here, by carrying with
me one ceaseless source of regret in my sister’s absence, I may reasonably hope to have

all my expectations of pleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight
can never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by the defence of
some little peculiar vexation.”
When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely to her
mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those
to her mother contained little else than that they were just returned from the library, where
such and such officers had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful
ornaments as made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she
would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs.
Forster called her, and they were going to the camp; and from her correspondence with
her sister there was still less to be learnt, for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer,
were much too full of lines under the words to be made public.
After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good-humour, and
cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore a happier aspect. The
families who had been in town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and
summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity;
and by the middle of June Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton
without tears,—an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope, that by the
following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to mention an officer
above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office,
another regiment should be quartered in Meryton.
The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast approaching; and
a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at
once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be
prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London
again within a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so
much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built
on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and,
according to the present plan, were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that
county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs.
Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly passed
some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as
great an object of her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,
Dovedale, or the Peak.
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed: she had set her heart on seeing the Lakes; and
still thought there might have been time enough. But it was her business to be satisfied—
and certainly her temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.
With the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was impossible
for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. “But surely,” said
she, “I may enter his county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars, without his
perceiving me.”
The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away before her
uncle and aunt’s arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their

four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight
years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin
Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper
exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way—teaching them, playing with
them, and loving them.
The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with
Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain—that of
suitableness as companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to
bear inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and affection and
intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments
abroad.
It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the
remarkable places through which their route thither lay—Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick,
Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc., are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all
the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former
residence, and where she had lately learned that some acquaintance still remained, they
bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five
miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found, from her aunt, that Pemberley was situated. It was not
in their direct road; nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the
evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr.
Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
“My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?” said
her aunt. “A place, too, with which so many of your acquaintance are connected.
Wickham passed all his youth there, you know.”
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and was
obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was tired of great
houses: after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin
curtains.
Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine house richly furnished,”
said she, “I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have
some of the finest woods in the country.”
Elizabeth said no more; but her mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting
Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed
at the very idea; and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run
such a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could be
the last resource, if her private inquiries as to the absence of the family were
unfavourably answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether
Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its proprietor, and, with no
little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer? A most welcome negative
followed the last question; and her alarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a
great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next

morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of
indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme.
To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.

“Conjecturing as to the date.”

CHAPTER XLIII.

LIZABETH, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in
at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a
beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every
remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then
found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the
eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of the valley,
into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone
building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and
in front a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any
artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was
delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural
beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm
in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be
something!
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while
examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner
returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the
place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper,
had leisure to wonder at her being where she was.
The housekeeper came; a respectable looking elderly woman, much less fine, and
more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-
parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after
slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with
wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance,
was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the
whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as
far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were
taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The
rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their
proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor
uselessly fine,—with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of
Rosings.
“And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress! With these rooms I
might have now been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I
might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and
aunt. But, no,” recollecting herself, “that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have
been lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.”
This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something like regret.

She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master were really absent, but
had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she
turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was; adding, “But we
expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How rejoiced was Elizabeth that
their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of
Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantel-piece. Her
aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them
it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s steward, who had
been brought up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the army,” she added;
“but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.
“And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, “is my master
—and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other—about eight years ago.”
“I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the
picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.”
Mrs. Reynolds’ respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her
knowing her master.
“Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”
Elizabeth coloured, and said, “A little.”
“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”
“Yes, very handsome.”
“I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery upstairs you will see a finer,
larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these
miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them.”
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them.
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was
only eight years old.
“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mr. Gardiner.
“Oh, yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished! She
plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her
—a present from my master: she comes here to-morrow with him.”
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her
communicativeness by his questions and remarks: Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or
attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.
“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”
“Not so much as I could wish, sir: but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and
Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.”
“Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.”
“If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”

“Yes, sir; but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for
him.”
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, “It is very much to his
credit, I am sure, that you should think so.”
“I say no more than the truth, and what everybody will say that knows him,” replied
the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing
astonishment as the housekeeper added, “I have never had a cross word from him in my
life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”
This was praise of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he
was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was
awakened: she longed to hear more; and was grateful to her uncle for saying,—
“There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having
such a master.”
“Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a
better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are
good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest tempered, most
generous-hearted boy in the world.”
Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she.
“His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.
“Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him—just as affable to
the poor.”
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds
could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the
dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly
amused by the kind of family prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive
commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on
his many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
“He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that ever lived. Not like the
wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his
tenants or servants but what will give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but
I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle
away like other young men.”
“In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought Elizabeth.
“This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not quite
consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”
“Perhaps we might be deceived.”
“That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”
On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shown into a very pretty sitting-
room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below; and
were informed that it was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a
liking to the room, when last at Pemberley.

“He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards one of the
windows.
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should enter the room.
“And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever can give his sister any
pleasure, is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”
The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bed-rooms, were all that
remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings: but Elizabeth knew
nothing of the art; and from such as had been already visible below, she had willingly
turned to look at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects were usually
more interesting, and also more intelligible.
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the
attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in quest of the only face whose features
would be known to her. At last it arrested her—and she beheld a striking resemblance of
Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face, as she remembered to have sometimes seen,
when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest
contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds
informed them, that it had been taken in his father’s lifetime.
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more gentle sensation
towards the original than she had ever felt in the height of their acquaintance. The
commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise
is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a
master, she considered how many people’s happiness were in his guardianship! How
much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow! How much of good or evil must
be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was
favourable to his character; and as she stood before the canvas, on which he was
represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper
sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before: she remembered its warmth, and
softened its impropriety of expression.
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they
returned down stairs; and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the
gardener, who met them at the hall door.
As they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again;
her uncle and aunt stopped also; and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of
the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road which led
behind it to the stables.
They were within twenty yards of each other; and so abrupt was his appearance, that it
was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were
overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed
immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and
spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received his
compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had his first

appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just been examining, been
insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s
expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They
stood a little aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil
inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted,
every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they
continued together were some of the most uncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem
much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he
repeated his inquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay in
Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his
thoughts.
At length, every idea seemed to fail him; and after standing a few moments without
saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of his figure; but Elizabeth
heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence.
She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most
unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In
what a disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had
purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? or, why did he thus
come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should
have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was plain that he was that
moment arrived, that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again
and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered,
—what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak
with such civility, to inquire after her family! Never in her life had she seen his manners
so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected
meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his
letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account for it.
They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was
bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were
approaching: but it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though
she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to
direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene.
Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be,
where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his
mind; in what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was
still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there
had been that in his voice, which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or
of pleasure in seeing her, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with
composure.

At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind roused
her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
They entered the woods, and, bidding adieu to the river for a while, ascended some of
the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to
wander, were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range
of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner
expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk.
With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter;
and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a
descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts.
They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene: it was a
spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen,
allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood
which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed
the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a
great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly
as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards
the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was
slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing,
and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the
water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on
in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was quite
equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no
great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to
see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an
interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really
intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike
into some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their
view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw that he
had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began as they met to
admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and
“charming,” when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of
Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said
no more.
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her if she
would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility
for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being
now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had
revolted, in his offer to herself. “What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows
who they are! He takes them now for people of fashion.”
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not
without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful

companions. That he was surprised by the connection was evident: he sustained it,
however, with fortitude: and, so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered
into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but
triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there
was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and
gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
his taste, or his good manners.
The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with
the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued in the
neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing
out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was
walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth
said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her
astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, “Why is he so
altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for me, it cannot be for my sake that his
manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this.
It is impossible that he should still love me.”
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen
behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better
inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated
in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth’s arm
inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her
place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence the lady first spoke.
She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the
place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected
—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that you would certainly not be here
till to-morrow; and, indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not
immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that
business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest
of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,” he
continued, “and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,—Mr.
Bingley and his sisters.”
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to
the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had been last mentioned between them; and if she
might judge from his complexion, his mind was not very differently engaged.
“There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a pause, “who more
particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to
introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know
in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy
might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without
looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not
made him think really ill of her.

They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not
comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of
introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped
the others; and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a
quarter of a mile behind.
He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself not tired, and they
stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might have been said, and silence was
very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last
she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dovedale
with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her
ideas were nearly worn out before the tête-à-tête was over.
On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go into the house and
take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with the
utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off,
Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.
The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them pronounced him
to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected.
“He is perfectly well-behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle.
“There is something a little stately in him, to be sure,” replied her aunt; “but it is
confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that
though some people may call him proud, I have seen nothing of it.”
“I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it was
really attentive; and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with
Elizabeth was very trifling.”
“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as Wickham; or rather he
has not Wickham’s countenance, for his features are perfectly good. But how came you to
tell us that he was so disagreeable?”
Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could: said that she had liked him better when
they met in Kent than before, and that she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.
“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied her uncle. “Your
great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him at his word about fishing, as he
might change his mind another day, and warn me off his grounds.”
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said nothing.
“From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really should not have
thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor
Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing
about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance,
that would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady
who showed us the house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help
laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and that, in the eye of a
servant, comprehends every virtue.”

Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of his behaviour
to Wickham; and, therefore, gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she
could, that by what she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a
very different construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
Wickham’s so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of
this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been
connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be such as might be
relied on.
Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned: but as they were now approaching the
scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to the charm of recollection; and she
was too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its
environs, to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning’s walk, they
had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the
evening was spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many years’
discontinuance.
The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention
for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder,
of Mr. Darcy’s civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.

CHAPTER XLIV.
LIZABETH had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit her
the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was, consequently, resolved
not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion
was false; for on the very morning after their own arrival at Lambton these
visitors came. They had been walking about the place with some of their new
friends, and were just returned to the inn to dress themselves for dining with
the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a
gentleman and lady in a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth, immediately recognizing
the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of surprise to her
relations, by acquainting them with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt
were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the
circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them
a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they now felt that
there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter than by
supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-born notions were passing in
their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth’s feelings was every moment increasing. She

was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but, amongst other causes of disquiet, she
dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in her favour; and,
more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally suspected that every power of
pleasing would fail her.
She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked up and down
the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of inquiring surprise in her
uncle and aunt as made everything worse.
Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took place.
With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new acquaintance was at least as much
embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was
exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was
only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a
monosyllable.
Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though little more than
sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less
handsome than her brother, but there was sense and good-humour in her face, and her
manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in
her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much
relieved by discerning such different feelings.
They had not been long together before Darcy told her that Bingley was also coming
to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a
visitor, when Bingley’s quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the
room. All Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long done away; but had she still felt
any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he
expressed himself on seeing her again. He inquired in a friendly, though general, way,
after her family, and looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had
ever done.
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage than to herself.
They had long wished to see him. The whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively
attention. The suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece, directed their
observation towards each with an earnest, though guarded, inquiry; and they soon drew
from those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love.
Of the lady’s sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that the gentleman was
overflowing with admiration was evident enough.
Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the feelings of each of
her visitors, she wanted to compose her own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and in
the latter object, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to
whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were pre-possessed in her favour. Bingley was
ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.

“To make herself agreeable to all”
[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and oh! how ardently did
she long to know whether any of his were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could
fancy that he talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with
the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though this
might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who
had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side that spoke particular
regard. Nothing occurred between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this
point she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they
parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of Jane, not

untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention of
her, had he dared. He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking together,
and in a tone which had something of real regret, that it “was a very long time since he
had had the pleasure of seeing her;” and, before she could reply, he added, “It is above
eight months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were all dancing
together at Netherfield.”
Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards took occasion
to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether all her sisters were at
Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark; but there
was a look and a manner which gave them meaning.
It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but whenever she
did catch a glimpse she saw an expression of general complaisance, and in all that he
said, she heard an accent so far removed from hauteur or disdain of his companions, as
convinced her that the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed,
however temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she
saw him thus seeking the acquaintance, and courting the good opinion of people with
whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace; when she saw him
thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained,
and recollected their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage, the difference, the change
was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly restrain her
astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at
Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please,
so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could
result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to
whom his attentions were addressed, would draw down the ridicule and censure of the
ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.
Their visitors stayed with them above half an hour; and when they arose to depart, Mr.
Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss
Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how she, whom
the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned
away her head. Presuming, however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a
momentary embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband,
who was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for her
attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.
Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth again, having
still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire
friends. Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was
pleased; and on this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors left
them, capable of considering the last half hour with some satisfaction, though while it
was passing the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries

or hints from her uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their
favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity; it was not their wish
to force her communication. It was evident that she was much better acquainted with Mr.
Darcy than they had before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love with
her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.
Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far as their
acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could not be untouched by his
politeness; and had they drawn his character from their own feelings and his servant’s
report, without any reference to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he
was known would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,
however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that the authority
of a servant, who had known him since he was four years old, and whose own manners
indicated respectability, was not to be hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in
the intelligence of their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had
nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, it would certainly be
imputed by the inhabitants of a small market town where the family did not visit. It was
acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.
With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held there in much
estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were
imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he
had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than the last; and
the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not long enough to determine her
feelings towards one in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours, endeavouring
to make them out. She certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and
she had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could be
so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first
unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was
now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature by the testimony so highly in his
favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had
produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of
good-will which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude;—gratitude, not merely for
having once loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and
acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations accompanying her
rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy,
seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance; and without
any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only
were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent on making her
known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride excited not only
astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and, as such,
its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it
could not be exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she

felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that
welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she
should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on the
renewal of his addresses.
It had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and niece, that such a striking
civility as Miss Darcy’s, in coming to them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley—
for she had reached it only to a late breakfast—ought to be imitated, though it could not
be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it would
be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were,
therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when she asked herself the reason, she
had very little to say in reply.
Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been renewed the
day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at
Pemberley by noon.

“Engaged by the river.”

CHAPTER XLV.
ONVINCED as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her had
originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how very unwelcome her
appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how
much civility on that lady’s side the acquaintance would now be renewed.
On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon,
whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows, opening to the
ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the house, and of
the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.
In this room they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there with Mrs. Hurst
and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception of
them was very civil, but attended with all that embarrassment which, though proceeding
from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves
inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however,
did her justice, and pitied her.
By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a courtesy; and on their
being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be, succeeded for a few
moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman,
whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to be more truly well-
bred than either of the others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help
from Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for
courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sentence, when there was
least danger of its being heard.
Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley, and that she
could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without calling her attention. This
observation would not have prevented her from trying to talk to the latter, had they not
been seated at an inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity
of saying much: her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every moment that
some of the gentlemen would enter the room: she wished, she feared, that the master of
the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished or feared it most, she could
scarcely determine. After sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour, without hearing Miss
Bingley’s voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold inquiry after the
health of her family. She answered with equal indifference and brevity, and the other said
no more.
The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the entrance of servants
with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the finest fruits in season; but this did not take
place till after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had
been given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole party;
for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes,
nectarines, and peaches, soon collected them round the table.

While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether she most
feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his
entering the room; and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes to
predominate, she began to regret that he came.
He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other gentlemen
from the house, was engaged by the river; and had left him only on learning that the
ladies of the family intended a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear,
than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;—a resolution the
more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she saw that
the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and that there was
scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first came into the room. In
no countenance was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite
of the smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its objects; for
jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no
means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother’s entrance, exerted herself much more to talk; and
Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and
forwarded, as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss
Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity
of saying, with sneering civility,—
“Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire militia removed from Meryton? They must be
a great loss to your family.”
In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name: but Elizabeth instantly
comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the various recollections
connected with him gave her a moment’s distress; but, exerting herself vigorously to repel
the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone.
While she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy with a heightened complexion,
earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to lift up her
eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she
undoubtedly would have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to
discompose Elizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed her
partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy’s opinion, and,
perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of her
family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss
Darcy’s meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was
possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley’s connections her brother was
particularly anxious to conceal it, from that very wish which Elizabeth had long ago
attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a
plan; and without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss
Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern for the welfare of
his friend.
Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and as Miss
Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also
recovered in time, though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother, whose

eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest in the affair; and the very
circumstance which had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to
have fixed them on her more and more cheerfully.
Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above mentioned; and
while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her
feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth’s person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would
not join her. Her brother’s recommendation was enough to insure her favour: his
judgment could not err; and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as to leave
Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When
Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of
what she had been saying to his sister.
“How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she cried: “I never in my
life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and
coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.”
However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented himself with
coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned,—no
miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer.
“For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never could see any beauty in
her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all
handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes
been called so fine, I never could perceive anything extraordinary in them. They have a
sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-
sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.”
Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best
method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing
him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely
silent, however; and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued,—
“I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to
find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after
they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘She a beauty! I should as soon call her mother a
wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather
pretty at one time.”
“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but that was only when I
first knew her; for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest
women of my acquaintance.”
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced
him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their visit, as they
returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The looks and behaviour of
everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged
their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of everything but

himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs.
Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s beginning the subject.

Chapter XLVI.
LIZABETH had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been
renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the
third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two
letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been mis-
sent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the
direction remarkably ill.
They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt,
leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one mis-sent must be first
attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all
their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter
half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important
intelligence. It was to this effect:—
“Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected
and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What
I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were
all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with
one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty,
however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a
match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been
misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let
us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he
must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father
bears it better. How thankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said
against him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is
conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off

directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster
gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her
of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid
you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written.”
Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt,
Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the other, and opening it with the
utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than the conclusion of
the first.
“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I wish this may
be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I
cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I
have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr.
Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken
place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel
Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the
express. Though Lydia’s short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were
going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W.
never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F.,
who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B., intending to trace their route. He did trace
them easily to Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place, they removed into a
hackney-coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is
known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to
think. After making every possible inquiry on that side of London, Colonel F. came on
into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet
and Hatfield, but without any success,—no such people had been seen to pass through.
With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in
a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F.; but no
one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father
and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might
make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first
plan; and even if he could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia’s
connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible! I
grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage: he
shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be
trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it
would be better, but this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life saw
him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was
a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have
been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over,
shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if
inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do, what I have just told you I would not;
but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as
soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not afraid of

requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going
to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do, I
am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure
in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-
morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle’s advice and assistance would be
everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely
upon his goodness.”
“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she
finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a moment of the time so
precious; but as she reached the door, it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy
appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could
recover himself enough to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by
Lydia’s situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find
Mr. Gardiner this moment on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to
lose.”
“Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then
recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant, go after
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”
Elizabeth hesitated; but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how little would be
gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she
commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to
fetch his master and mistress home instantly.
On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so
miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a
tone of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could
take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.”
“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There is nothing the
matter with me. I am quite well, I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have
just received from Longbourn.”
She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another
word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his

“I have not an instant to lose”

concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just
had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My

youngest sister has left all her friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of
—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know him too well to
doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to—she is
lost for ever.”
Darcy was fixed in astonishment.
“When I consider,” she added, in a yet more agitated voice, “that I might have
prevented it! I who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only—some
part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
have happened. But it is all, all too late now.”
“I am grieved, indeed,” cried Darcy: “grieved—shocked. But is it certain, absolutely
certain?”
“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to
London, but not beyond: they are certainly not gone to Scotland.”
“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”
“My father has gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate
assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done; I know
very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they
even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!”
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
“When my eyes were opened to his real character, oh! had I known what I ought, what
I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched
mistake!”
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and
down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon
observed, and instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything must sink under
such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could
neither wonder nor condemn; but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the contrary,
exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes; and never had she so honestly
felt that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.
But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia—the humiliation, the
misery she was bringing on them all—soon swallowed up every private care; and
covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and,
after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice
of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise
restraint, said,—
“I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in
excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything
could be either said or done on my part, that might offer consolation to such distress! But
I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your
thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of
seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”

“Oh, yes! Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business
calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible. I know it
cannot be long.”
He readily assured her of his secrecy, again expressed his sorrow for her distress,
wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and, leaving his
compliments for her relations, with only one serious parting look, went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should ever see
each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their several meetings in
Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance,
so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which
would now have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its
termination.
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth’s change of
sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if otherwise, if the regard springing
from such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often
described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even before two words have
been exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given somewhat
of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill success might,
perhaps, authorize her to seek the other less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it
may, she saw him go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched business. Never since
reading Jane’s second letter had she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry
her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise
was the least of all her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter
remained on her mind, she was all surprise, all astonishment, that Wickham should marry
a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for money; and how Lydia could ever have
attached him had appeared incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an
attachment as this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose
Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the intention of marriage, she
had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her understanding would preserve
her from falling an easy prey.
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that Lydia had any
partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia had wanted only encouragement to
attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her
favourite, as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been
continually fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and mistaken
indulgence towards such a girl—oh! how acutely did she now feel it!
She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to share with Jane in
the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a family so deranged; a father absent, a
mother incapable of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost
persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of the
utmost importance, and till he entered the room the misery of her impatience was severe.
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing, by the servant’s account,

that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly on that head, she
eagerly communicated the cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and
dwelling on the postscript of the last with trembling energy. Though Lydia had never been
a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply affected. Not Lydia
only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror,
Mr. Gardiner readily promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting
no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit,
everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as
possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us
Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us;—was it so?”
“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. That is all
settled.”
“What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her room to prepare. “And are
they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”
But wishes were vain; or, at best, could serve only to amuse her in the hurry and
confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure to be idle, she would have
remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but
she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure.
An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner, meanwhile, having
settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after
all the misery of the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.

“The first pleasing earnest of their welcome.”

CHAPTER XLVII.
HAVE been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they drove from the
town; “and really, upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to
judge as your eldest sister does of the matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any
young man should form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
friendless, and who was actually staying in his Colonel’s family, that I am strongly
inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step forward? Could
he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster?
His temptation is not adequate to the risk.”
“Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.

“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle’s
opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and interest,
for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of Wickham. Can you,
yourself, Lizzie, so wholly give him up, as to believe him capable of it?”
“Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other neglect
I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not hope
it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the case?”
“In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute proof
“ that they are not gone to Scotland.”
“Oh, but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such a
presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the Barnet road.”
“Well, then,—supposing them to be in London—they may be there, though for the
purpose of concealment, for no more exceptionable purpose. It is not likely that money
should be very abundant on either side; and it might strike them that they could be more
economically, though less expeditiously, married in London, than in Scotland.”
“But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their marriage be
private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His most particular friend, you see by Jane’s
account, was persuaded of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a
woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what
attractions has she beyond youth, health, and good humour, that could make him for her
sake forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the
apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a dishonourable elopement with
her, I am not able to judge; for I know nothing of the effects that such a step might
produce. But as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no
brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father’s behaviour, from his
indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in
his family, that he would do as little and think as little about it, as any father could do, in
such a matter.”
“But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him, as to consent to
live with him on any other terms than marriage?”
“It does seem, and it is most shocking, indeed,” replied Elizabeth, with tears in her
eyes, “that a sister’s sense of decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt.
But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very
young: she has never been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half year,
nay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement and vanity. She
has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle and frivolous manner, and to
adopt any opinions that came in her way. Since the ——shire were first quartered in
Meryton, nothing but love, flirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has been
doing everything in her power, by thinking and talking on the subject, to give greater—
what shall I call it?—susceptibility to her feelings; which are naturally lively enough. And
we all know that Wickham has every charm of person and address that can captivate a
woman.”

“But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so ill of Wickham, as to believe
him capable of the attempt.”
“Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be their former
conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt, till it were proved against
them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has
been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that
he is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating.”
“And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity as to the
mode of her intelligence was all alive.
“I do, indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you the other day of his infamous
behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner
he spoke of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality towards him.
And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty—which it is not worth while
to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of
Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he
knew to the contrary himself. He must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as
we have found her.”
“But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you and Jane seem
so well to understand?”
“Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much both of
Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And
when I returned home the ——shire was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight’s time.
As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary
to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to anyone, that the
good opinion, which all the neighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And
even when it was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening
her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That she could be in any danger from the
deception never entered my head. That such a consequence as this should ensue, you may
easily believe was far enough from my thoughts.”
“When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to
believe them fond of each other?”
“Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side; and had
anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family on
which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to
admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about
him for the first two months: but he never distinguished her by any particular attention;
and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy
for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction,
again became her favourites.”
It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added to their fears,
hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject by its repeated discussion, no other
could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth’s

thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she
could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on the road,
reached Longbourn by dinnertime the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider
that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations.
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of
the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the
joyful surprise that lighted up their faces and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a
variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.
Elizabeth jumped out; and after giving each of them a hasty kiss, hurried into the
vestibule, where Jane, who came running downstairs from her mother’s apartment,
immediately met her.
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost
not a moment in asking whether anything had been heard of the fugitives.
“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope everything will
be well.”
“Is my father in town?”
“Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”
“And have you heard from him often?”
“We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had
arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He
merely added, that he should not write again, till he had something of importance to
mention.”
“And my mother—how is she? How are you all?”
“My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is
upstairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her
dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well.”
“But you—how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much you must have
gone through!”
Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their conversation,
which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children,
was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt,
and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.
When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already
asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no
intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her
heart suggested, had not yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and
that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain
their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce the marriage.
Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes’ conversation
together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of

regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own
sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging
indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing.
“If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to Brighton with all my
family, this would not have happened: but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her.
Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great
neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had
been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her;
but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor, dear child! And now here’s Mr. Bennet gone
away, and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be
killed, and what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold in
his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do.”
They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general
assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in
London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering
Lydia.
“Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he: “though it is right to be prepared for
the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left
Brighton. In a few days more, we may gain some news of them; and till we know that
they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me
to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult together as to what is to be done.”
“Oh, my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what I could most wish
for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they
are not married already, make them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them
wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them,
after they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him
what a dreadful state I am in—that I am frightened out of my wits; and have such
tremblings, such flutterings all over me, such spasms in my side, and pains in my head,
and such beatings at my heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear
Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not
know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know you will
contrive it all.”
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours in the cause,
could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in her hopes as her fears; and
after talking with her in this manner till dinner was on table, they left her to vent all her
feelings on the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.
Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real occasion for such
a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to oppose it; for they knew that she had
not prudence enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited at table,
and judged it better that one only of the household, and the one whom they could most
trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject.

In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busily
engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance before. One came from her
books, and the other from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm;
and no change was visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the
anger which she had herself incurred in the business, had given something more of
fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress enough of
herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of grave reflection, soon after they
were seated at table,—
“This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of. But we must
stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of each other the balm of
sisterly consolation.”
Then perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, “Unhappy as the
event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson:—that loss of virtue in a
female is irretrievable, that one false step involves her in endless ruin, that her reputation
is no less brittle than it is beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in her
behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.”
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any
reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions
from the evil before them.
In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an hour by
themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the opportunity of making any
inquiries which Jane was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations
over the dreadful sequel of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and
Miss Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the subject by
saying, “But tell me all and everything about it which I have not already heard. Give me
further particulars. What did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything
before the elopement took place? They must have seen them together for ever.”
“Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on
Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him. His behaviour
was attentive and kind to the utmost. He was coming to us, in order to assure us of his
concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that
apprehension first got abroad, it hastened his journey.”
“And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their
intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?”
“Yes; but when questioned by him, Denny denied knowing anything of their plan, and
would not give his real opinion about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not
marrying, and from that I am inclined to hope he might have been misunderstood before.”
“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a doubt, I suppose,
of their being really married?”
“How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a little uneasy—
a little fearful of my sister’s happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his
conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they

only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural
triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia’s last letter she had prepared
her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other many
weeks.”
“But not before they went to Brighton?”
“No, I believe not.”
“And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he know his
real character?”
“I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He
believed him to be imprudent and extravagant; and since this sad affair has taken place, it
is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt: but I hope this may be false.”
“Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not
have happened!”
“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister.
“But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present
feelings were, seemed unjustifiable.”
“We acted with the best intentions.”
“Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to his wife?”
“He brought it with him for us to see.”
Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the
contents:—

“My dear Harriet,
“You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing
myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to
Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for
there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy
without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at
Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater
when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will
be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping
my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me
when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball we meet with
great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you
would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are
packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will drink to our
good journey.
“Your affectionate friend,

“Lydia Bennet.”
“Oh, thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she had finished it.
“What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But at least it shows that she
was serious in the object of her journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her
to, it was not on her side a scheme of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt
it!”
“I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes.
My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such confusion!”
“Oh, Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it who did not
know the whole story before the end of the day?”
“I do not know: I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is very
difficult. My mother was in hysterics; and though I endeavoured to give her every
assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much as I might have done. But
the horror of what might possibly happen almost took from me my faculties.”
“Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look well. Oh
that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety upon yourself alone.”
“Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every fatigue, I
am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them. Kitty is slight and delicate, and
Mary studies so much that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt
Philips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good
as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and Lady

Lucas has been very kind: she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with
us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if they could be of use to us.”
“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth: “perhaps she meant well,
but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of one’s neighbours.
Assistance is impossible; condolence, insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a
distance, and be satisfied.”
She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had intended to
pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.
“He meant, I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place where they last
changed horses, see the postilions, and try if anything could be made out from them.
His principal object must be to discover the number of the hackney coach which took
them from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he thought the
circumstance of a gentleman and lady’s removing from one carriage into another
might be remarked, he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow
discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to
make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out the stand and
number of the coach. I do not know of any other designs that he had formed; but he
was in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had
difficulty in finding out even so much as this.”

“The Post.”

CHAPTER XLVIII.
HE whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent
and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for
exertion. They were forced to conclude, that he had no pleasing
intelligence to send; but even of that they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.

When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant information of
what was going on; and their uncle promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to
return to Longbourn as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his sister, who
considered it as the only security for her husband’s not being killed in a duel.
Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few days longer,
as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to her nieces. She shared in
their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of
freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with
the design of cheering and heartening them up—though, as she never came without
reporting some fresh instance of Wickham’s extravagance or irregularity, she seldom
went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found them.
All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months before,
had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman
in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been
extended into every tradesman’s family. Everybody declared that he was the
wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out that they had
always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not
credit above half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
her sister’s ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it, became
almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come, when, if they had gone
to Scotland, which she had never before entirely despaired of, they must in all
probability have gained some news of them.
Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received a letter
from him: it told them, that on his arrival he had immediately found out his brother,
and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street. That Mr. Bennet had been to
Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory
information; and that he was now determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in
town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their
first coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not
expect any success from this measure; but as his brother was eager in it, he meant to
assist him in pursuing it. He added, that Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at
present to leave London, and promised to write again very soon. There was also a
postscript to this effect:—
“I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if possible, from some
of the young man’s intimates in the regiment, whether Wickham has any relations or
connections who would be likely to know in what part of the town he has now
concealed himself. If there were anyone that one could apply to, with a probability of
gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have
nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to
satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps Lizzy could tell us what
relations he has now living better than any other person.”

Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference for her
authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information of so
satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved.
She had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother,
both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of his
companions in the ——shire might be able to give more information; and though she
was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a something to look
forward to.
Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part of
each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the first grand object
of every morning’s impatience. Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be
told would be communicated; and every succeeding day was expected to bring some
news of importance.
But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for their father,
from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane had received directions to
open all that came for him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who
knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It
was as follows:—
“My dear Sir,
“I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation in life, to condole
with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under, of which we were
yesterday informed by a letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs.
Collins and myself sincerely sympathize with you, and all your respectable family, in
your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a
cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can
alleviate so severe a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that
must be, of all others, most afflicting to a parent’s mind. The death of your daughter
would have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to be lamented,
because there is reason to suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this
licentiousness of behaviour in your